I 



POEMS 



HENEY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 



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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. 




EDINBURGH : 
WILLIAM P. NIMMO. 



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CONTENTS 



(Etiattgeltne. 

PAGE 

/ Evangeline 7 

2Hoite0 of tije &i$bu 

Prelude 40 

*Hymn to the Night 43 

7 A Psalm of Life 43 

The Reaper and the Flowers 44 

The Light of Stars 45 

Footsteps of Angels 46 

Flowers 47 

The Beleaguered City 43 

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year 50 

EARLIER POEMS. 

An April Day 51 

Autumn 52 

Woods in Winter 53 

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem 54 

Sunrise on the Hills 55 

The Spirit of Poetry 5f> 

Burial of the Minnisink 57 

TRANSLATIONS. 

Coplas de Manrique 58 

The Good Shepherd 71 

To-morrow 72 

The Native Land 72 

The Image of God ,.:.... 7S 



ii CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Brook 73 

The Celestial Pilot... 73 

The Terrestrial Paradise . 75 

Beatrice 76 

Spring 77 

The Child Asleep 78 

The Grave 78 

King Christian 79 

The Happiest Land 80 

The Wave 81 

The Dead 82 

The Bird and the Ship 82 

Whither? .-. 83 

Beware! , 84 

Song of the Bell 84 

The Castle by the Sea 85 

The Black Knight 86 

Song of the Silent Land 87 

L'Envoi 88 

Ballatig art* otfjer ^onng* 

■The Skeleton in Armour 89 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 93- 

The Luck of Edenhall 96 

The Elected Knight 97 

The Children of the Lord's Supper 99 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The Tillage Blacksmith 107 

Endymion 109 

The Two Locks of Hair 110 

It is not always May 110 

The Eainy Day Ill 

God's-Acre 112 

To the River Charles 112 

Blind Bartimeus 113 

The Goblet of Life 114 

Maidenhood 115 

Excelsior 117 



CONTENTS. ill 

pocm0 on felatjcrp* 

PAGE 

To William E Channing 118 

The Slave's Dream 118 

The Good Part 120 

The Slave in the Dismal Swamp 121 

The Slave Singing at Midnight 121 

The Witnesses 122 

The Quadroon Girl 123 

The Warning 124 

W$z Belftp of 25tttp0, anU otfiec $oem& 

Carillon 125 

The Belfry of Bruges 126 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

A Gleam oi Sunshine 128 

The Arsenal at Springfield 129 

Nuremberg 130 

The Norman Baron 132 

Rain in Summer 134 

To a Child* 136 

The Occultation of Orion 140 

The Bridge 112 

To "The Driving Cloud'' 144 

SONGS. 

Seaweed 145 

The Day is Done 146 

Afternoon in February 147 

To an Old Danish Song-Book 148 

Walter von der Yogelweide ." 149 

Drinking Song 151 

The Old Clock on the Stairs 152 

The Arrow and the Song 153 

SONNETS. 

The Evening Star 154 

Autumn 154 

Dante 155 



iY CONTENTS. 

TRANSLATIONS. 

PAOSH 

The Hemlock-Tree 155 

Annie of Tharaw 156 

The Statue over the Cathedral Door 157 

The Legend of the Crossbill 157 

The Sea hath its Pearls 158 

Poetic Aphorisms 158 

Curfew 160 

Clje £>ea0t'tie antr tije fiivtgtnt* 

Dedication. 161 

BY THE SEASIDE. 

The Building of the Ship 162 

The Evening Star 171 

The Secret of the Sea 171 

Twilight 172 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert 173 

The Lighthouse 174 

The Fire of Drift-Wood 175 

BY THE FIRESIDE. 

Resignation 177 

The Builders ...:. 178 

Sand of the Desert in an Hour-Glass 179 

Birds of Passage 180 

The Open Window 181 

King Witlaf's Drinking-Horn 182 

Gaspar Becerra 183 

Pegasus in Pound 184 

TegneYs Drapa 185 

Sonnet 187 

The Singers 187 

Suspiria 188 

Hymn for my Brother's Ordination 188 

TRANSLATIONS. 

The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille 189 

A Christmas Carol 198 



CONTENTS. 



Efje ©often HegenTx 

PAGE 

The Golden Legend 200 



Cfje Spanish Stxihnti 

The Spanish Student 295 

2Hje Song of ^tafoatfja* 

Ths Song of Hiawatha 347 

3H)e ffiouttefjtp of littles Stantugfj. 

The Courtship of Miles Standish 463 



Btrtig of -parage. 

Prometheus, or the Poet's Forethought , 490 

The Ladder of Saint Augustine 491 

The Phantom Ship.. 493 

The Warden of the Cinque Ports 494 

Haunted Houses 495 

In the Churchyard at Cambridge 496 

The Emperor's Bird's-Nest 497 

The Two Angels 498 

Daylight and Moonlight 499 

The Jewish Cemetery at Newport 500 

Oliver Basselin 501 

Victor Galbraith 503 

My Lost Youth 504 

TheRopewalk ,, 506 

The Golden Mile-Stone , 508 

Catawba Wine 509 

Santa Filomena 511 

The Discoverer of the North Cape 512 

Daybreak , 515 

The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz., , 515 

Children 516 

Sandalphon 517 

Epimetheus, or the Poet's Afterthought 519 



VI CONTENTS. 



dale* of a TOapfoe Inn. 

PAGE 

Prelude 521 

The Landlord's Tale , 528 

Interlude 530 

The Student's Tale 532 

Interlude... , 538 

The Spanish Jew's Tale L 539 

Interlude 540 

The Sicilian's Tale . 541 

Interlude 545 

The Musician's Tale 546 

Interlude ( ...... 580 

The Theologian's Tale 582 

Interlude 586 

The Poet's Tale 587 

Finale .... , 593 

3Strtrs of passage. 

FLIGHT THE SECOND. 

The Children's Hour...,,, ,, 594 

Enceladus ■«, 595 

The Cumberland 596 

Snow-Flakes ~ .« 597 

A Day of Sunshine -. 597 

Something Left Undone ..., « 598 

Weariness »*. 599 

jffIafoer?tae4Lttce, 

Flower- de-Luce 584* 

Palingenesis 585* 

The Bridge of Cloud 586* 

Hawthorne K. 587* 

Christmas Bells 588* 

Kambalu 589* 

The Wind over the Chimney 591* 

The Bells of Lynn 593* 

Killed at the Ford 593* 

Giotto's Tower 594* 

To-morrow 595* 

Divina Commedia 595* 

Noel 597* 

Notes ,. 601 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



EYANGELINE, 



A TALE OF ACADIE. 

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, 
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, 
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, 
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. 
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. 

This is the forest primeval ; but where are the hearts that beneath it 
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the 

huntsman ? 
"Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers, — 
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, 
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? 
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for ever departed ! 
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October 
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the 

ocean. 
Nought but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre. 

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, 
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, 
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest; 
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. 



EVANGELINE. 
PART THE FIRST. 



In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre* 
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the east 
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without nun 
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labour inces 
Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at stated seasons the flood-g; 
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the mead< 
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards, and corn-£ 
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the n 

ward 
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains 
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlanti 
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descei 
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. 
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chest 
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Hen 
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projec 
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway. 
There, in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the si 
Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimney 
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps, and in kirtles 
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden 
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors 
Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the son 

the maidens. 
Solemnly down the street came the parish priest ; and the chile 
Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless then 
Reverend he walked among them; and up rose matrons and mai< 
Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. 
Then came the labourers home from the field, and serenely the sun 
Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfr 
Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village 
Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, 
Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contents 
Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers, — 
Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free f r 
Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republic 
Neither iocks had they to their doors, nor bars to their window 
But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the ow 
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance 

Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Mi 
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre*, 
Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his househ I 
Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. 



EVANGELINE. 9 

Stalwart and stately in form was the man of seventy winters ; 
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes ; 
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the 

oak-leaves. 
Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. 
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the way-side, 
Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her 

tresses ! 
Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows. 
When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noon-tide 
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth was the maiden. 
Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret 
Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop 
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, 
Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her 

missal, 
Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings 
Brought in the olden time from France, und since, as an heirloom, 
Handed down from mother to child through long generations. 
But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal beauty — 
Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, 
Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her. 
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. 
Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer 
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady 
Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. 
Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath ; and a footpath 
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. 
Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse, 
Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the road-side, 
Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. 
Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss- 
grown 
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. 
Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and 

the farm-yard. 
There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and 

the harrows ; 
There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, in his feathered seraglio, 
Strutted the lorldly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame 
Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. 
Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one 
Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch ; and a staircase, 
Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. 
There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates 
Murmuring ever of love ; while above in the variant breezes 
Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. 

Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pre 



10 EVANGELINE. 

Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household. 
Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, 
Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion ; 
Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment I 
Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended, 
And as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps, 
Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron ; 
Or at the joyous feast, of the Patron Saint of the village, 
Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered 
Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. 
But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome ; 
Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith, 
Who was a mighty man in the village, and honoured of all men ; 
For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations, 
Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. 
Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood 
Grew up together as brother and sister ; and Father Felician, 
Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters 
Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the 

plain-song. 
But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed, 
Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. 
There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him 
Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, 
Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel 
Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. 
Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness 
Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and 

crevice, 
"Warm by the forge within they watched the labouring bellows, 
And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes, 
Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. 
Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, 
Down the hill-side bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow. 
Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters, 
Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow 
Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings; 
Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow ! 
Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children. 
He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning, 
Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action. 
She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. 
" Sunshine of Saint Eulalie " was she called; for that was the sunshine 
Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples; 
She too would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance, 
Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. 

II. 

Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer, 



EVANGELINE. 1 1 

And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. 
Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound 
Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. 
Harvests were gathered in ; and wild with the winds of September 
Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the Angel. 
All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. 
Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey 
Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted 
Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. 
Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season 
Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints ! 
Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape 
Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood. 
Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean 
Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. 
Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm -yards, 
Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, 
Ail were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun 
Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapours around him ; 
While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow, 
Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest 
Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and 
jewels. 

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. 
Day .with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending 
Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the 

homestead. 
Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, 
And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening. 
Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, 
Proud of her snow-white hide, and the riband that waved from her 

collar, 
Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. 
Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the sea-side 
Where was their favourite pasture. • Behind them followed the 

watch-dog, 
Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, 
Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly 
Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers ; 
Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept ; their protector, 
When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves 

howled. 
Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, 
Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odour. 
Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks, 
While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles, 
Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson, 
Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. 



12 EVANGELINE. 

Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders 
Unto the milkmaid's hand ; whilst loud and in regular cadence 
Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. 
Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in t!ie farm-yard, 
Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness; 
Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors, 
Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. 

In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer 
Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke- 
wreaths 
Struggled together, like foes in a burning city. Behind him, 
Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic, 
Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness. 
Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair, 
Laughed in the flickering light ; and the pewter plates on the dresser 
Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine. 
Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, 
Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him 
Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards. 
Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated, 
Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her. 
Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle, 
While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe, 
Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together. 
As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases, 
Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar, 
So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked. 

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted, 
Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges. 
Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith, 
And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. 
u Welcome ! " the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the 

threshold, 
" Welcome, Basil, my friend ! Come, take thy place on the settle 
Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee; 
Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco : 
Never so much thyself art thou, as when through the curling 
Smoke oi k,ne pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams 
Kound and red as the harvest-moon through the mist of the marshes." 
Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith, 
Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside : — 
" Benedict Belief ontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad! 
Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with 
Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. 
Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe." 
Pausing a moment to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him, 
And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued : — 
" Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors 



EVANGELINE. I'd 

Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us. 
What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded 
On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate 
Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas ! in the meantime 
Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people." 
Then made answer the farmer : — " Perhaps some friendlier purpose 
Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England 
By the untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blignted, 
And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children." 
" Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith, 
Shaking his head, as in doubt ; then, heaving a sigh, he continued : — 
" Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port RovaL 
Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts, 
Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. 
Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds ; 
Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower." 
Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer: — 
" Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our corn-fields, 
Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean, 
Than were our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon. 
Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow 
Fall on this house and hearth ; for this is the night of the contract. 
Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village 
Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking the glebe round 

about them, 
Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth, 
Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and ink-horn. 
Shall we not, then, be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?" 
As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's, 
Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her f cither had spoken; 
And as they died on his lips the worthy notary entered. 

III. 

Bent like a labouring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, 
Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public; 
Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung 
Over his shoulders ; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bow 
Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. 
Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred 
Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick. 
Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive, 
Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English. 
Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion, 
Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike. 
He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children; 
For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest, 
And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses, 
And of the white Le'tiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened 
Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambsrs of children ; 



L 



14 EVANGELINE. 

And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable, 
And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell, 
And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes ; 
With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. 
Then uprose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith , 
Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand, 
" Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the 

village, 
And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their 

errand." 
Then with modest demeanour made answer the notary public : — 
" Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser ; 
And what their errand may be I know not better than others. 
Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention 
Brings them here, for we are at peace ; and why then molest us ? " 
" God's name ! " shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith, 
" Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore ? 
Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest ! ." 
But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public :— 
u Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice 
Triumphs : and well I remember a story that often consoled me, 
When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal." 
This was the old man's favourite tale, and he loved to repeat it 
When his neighbours complained that any injustice was done them. 
* Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember, 
Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice 
Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand, 
And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided 
Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people. 
Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance, 
Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them. 
But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted ; 
Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the 

mighty 
Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace 
That a necklace of pearls was lost ; and ere long a suspicion 
Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. 
She, after form of trial, condemned to die on the scaffold, 
Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. 
As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, 
Lo ! o'er the city a tempest rose ; and the bolts of the thunder 
Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand 
Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance, 
And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie, 
Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven." 
Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith 
Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language ; 
All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapours 
Freaze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter, 




"Hi Bfe,. 



„±&j&^&x^z~S. 



EVANGELISTE. 15 

Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, 
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed 
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of 

Grand-Pre ; 
While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and ink-horn, 
Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties, 
Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. 
Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed, 
And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin. 
Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table 
Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver ; 
And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom, 
Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. 
Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed; 
While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside, 
Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner. 
Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men 
Laughed at each lucky hit or unsuccessful manoeuvre, 
Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the 

king-row. 
Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure, 
Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise 
Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows. 
Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, 
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. 
Thus passed the evening away. Anon the bell from the belfry 
Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway 
Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household. 
Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step 
Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness. 
Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearthstone, 
And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer. 
Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed. 
Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness, 
Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. 
Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the door of her chamber. 
Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes- 
press 
Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded 
Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. 
This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage, 
Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife. 
Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight 
Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart 

of the maiden 
Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean. 
Ah ! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with 
Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber ! 
Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchai d, 



16 EVANGELINE. 

Waited her lover, and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her 

shadow. 
Yet were her thoughts of him; and at times a feeling of sadness 
Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight 
Flitted across the floor, and darkened the room for a moment. 
And as she gazed from the window she saw serenely the moon pass 
Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps, 
As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar ! 

IV. 

Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre*. 
Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, 
Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor, 
Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labour 
Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning. 
Now from the country around, from the farms and the neighbouring 

hamlets, 
Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. 
Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk 
Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows, 
Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the green- 
sward, 
Group after group appeared, and joined or passed on the highway. 
Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labour were silenced. 
Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the 

house-doors 
Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. 
Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted; 
For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together, 
All things were held in common, and what one had was another's. 
Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant; 
For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father : 
Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness 
Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. 

Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, 
Bending with golden fruit, wa3 spread the feast of betrothal. 
There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated; 
There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. 
Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives, 
Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waisb- 

coats. 
Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white 
Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler 
Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers, 
Gaily the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, 
Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de DunJcerque, 
And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. 
Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances 



EVANGELINE. 17 

Cnder the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows; 
Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. 
Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter ! 
Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith ! 

So passed the morning away. And lo ! with a summons sonorous 
Sounded the bell from its tower and over the meadows a drum beat. 
Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the 

churchyard, 
"Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the 

headstones 
Garlands of autumn leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. 
Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among 

them, 
Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangour 
Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement, — 
Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal 
Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. 
Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar. 
Holding aloft in his hand, with its seals, the royal commission : — 
"You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders. 
Clement and kind has he been ; but how you have answered his kindness, 
Let your own hearts reply ! To my natural make and my temper 
Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. 
Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch; 
Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds, 
Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you yourselves from this province 
Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there 
Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people ! 
Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure!" 
As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer, 
Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones 
Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows, 
Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house- 
roofs, 
Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures ; 
So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker. 
Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose 
Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger, 
And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the doorway. 
Vain was the hope of escape ; and cries and fierce imprecations 
Bang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the 

others 
Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith, 
As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. 
Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he 

shouted : — 
"Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them 

alegiance ! 



18 EVANGELINE. 

Daath to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our har- 
vests ! " 
More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier 
Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. 

In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention, 
Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician 
Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. 
Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence 
All that clamorous throng ; and thus he spake to his people ; 
Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents measured and mournful 
Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes : — 
" What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you? 
Forty years of my life have I laboured among you, and taught you, 
Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another ! 
3s this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations ? 
Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness ? 
This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it 
Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred ? 
Lo, where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you ! 
See, in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion ! 
Hark, how those lips still repeat the prayer, ' Father, forgive them !* 
Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us, 
Let us repeat it now, and say, * Father, forgive them ! ' " 
Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people 
Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded that passionate outbreak ; 
And they repeated his prayer, and said, " Father, forgive them ! " 

Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar. 
Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded, 
Not with their lips alone, but their hearts ; and the Ave Maria 
Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion 

translated, 
Rose on the ardour of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven. 

Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides 
Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children. 
Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand 
Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending, 
Lighted the village street with mysterious splendour, and roofed each 
Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows. 
Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table ; 
There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild flowers ; 
There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from 

the dairy; 
And at the head of the board the great arm-chair of the farmer. 
Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset 
Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadowa 
Ah ! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, 



EVANGELINE. 19 

And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended, — 
Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience ! 
Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, 
Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the women, 
As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed, 
Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children. 
Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapours 
Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai. 
Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. 

Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered. 
All was silent within ; and in vain at the door and the windows 
Stood she, and listened and looked, until, overcome by emotion, 
" Gabriel ! " cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer 
Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living. 
Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father. 
Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board stood the supper 

untasted, 
Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror. 
Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber. 
In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall 
Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window. 
Keenly the lightning flashed ; and the voice of the echoing thunder 
Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created ! 
Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven : 
Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till 
morning. 

V. 

Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day 
Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. 
Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, 
Came from the neighbouring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, 
Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore, 
Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, 
Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland. 
Close at then sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, 
While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. 

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried ; and there on the 
sea-beach 

Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. 

All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply; 

All day long the wains came labouring down from the village. 

Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, 

Echoing far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard. 

Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church- 
doors 

Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession 



20 EVANGELINE. 

Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers. 

Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country; 

Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and way-worn, 

So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended 

Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their 

daughters. 
Foremost the young men came ; and, raising together their voices, 
Sang they with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions : — 
" Sacred heart of the Saviour ! inexhaustible fountain ! 
Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience !" 
Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by 

the way-side, 
Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them 
Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. 

Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence, 
Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,-^ 
Calmly and sadly waited, until the procession approached her, 
And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. 
Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him, 
Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whis- 
pered : — 
" Gabriel, be of good cheer ! for if we love one another, 
Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!" 
Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father 
Saw she slowly advancing. Alas, how changed was his aspect ! 
Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his 

footstep 
Heavier seemed with the weight of the weary heart in his bosom , 
But, with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him, 
Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. 
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession, 

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. 
Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion 
Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their 

children 
Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. 
So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, 
While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father. 
Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight 
Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean 
Fled away from the shore, and left a line of the sand-beach 
Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed. 
Farther back, in the midst of the household goods and the waggons. 
Like to a gipsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, 
All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, 
Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. 
Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean, 



EVANGELINE. 21 

Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving 
Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. 
Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures; 
Sweet was the moist still air with the odour of milk from their udders; 
Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm- 
yard, — 
"Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid. 
Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded- 
Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. 

But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled, 
Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest, 
Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered, 
Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children. 
Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish, 
Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering, 
Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore. 
Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father, 
And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man, 
Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion, 
E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken. 
Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him, 
Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not, 
But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light. 
" Benedicite!" murmured the priest, in tones of compassion. 
More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents 
Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold, 
Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow. 
Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden, 
Raising his eyes, full of tears, to the silent stars that above them 
Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of moHals. 
Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. 

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red 
Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon 
Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow, 
Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together. 
Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, 
Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead. 
Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were 
Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands 

of a martyr. 
Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, 

uplifting, 
Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops 
Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. 

These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on ship- 
board. 



22 EVANGELINE. 

Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, 
" We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pre* ! 
Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards, 
Thinking the day had dawned ; and anon the lowing of cattle 
Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. 
Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments 
Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska, 
When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirl- 
wind, 
Or the loud-bellowing herds of buffaloes rash to the river. 
Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses 
Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the 
meadows. 

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the 
maiden 
Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them; 
And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion, 
Lo ! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore 
Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. 
Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden 
Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. 
Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head in his bosom. 
Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber ; 
And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her. 
Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her, 
Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. 
Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape, 
Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her, 
And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. 
Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people : — 
" Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season 
Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, 
Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard." 
Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side, 
Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, 
But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pre\ 
And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, 
Lo ! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation, 
Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 
'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean, 
With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward. 
Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking ; 
And with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed out of the harbour, 
Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruing. 



EVANGELINE. 
PAUT THE SECOND. 



Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pre', 

When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, 

Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, 

Exile without an end, and without an example in story. 

Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed ; 

Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the 

north-east 
Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland. 
Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, 
From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas, — 
From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of 

Waters 
Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean, 
Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth. 
Friends they sought, and homes ; and many, despairing, heart-broken, 
Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside. 
Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards. 
Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered, 
Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. 
Fair was she and young ; but alas ! before her extended, 
Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway 
Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before 

her, 
Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned, 
As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by 
Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. 
Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished ; 
As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, 
Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended 
Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. 
Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her, 
Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit, 
She would commence again her endless search and endeavour ; 
Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and 

tombstones, 
Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom 
He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. 
Sometimes a rumour, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, 
Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. 
Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known 

him; 
"But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. 
" Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said they; "oh, yes ! we have seen him. 
He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies; 
Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers/' 



24 EVANGELINE. 

w Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said others ; " oh, yes ! we have seen him. 

He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana." 

Then would they say : — " Dear child, why dream and wait for him 

longer ? 
Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel ? others 
Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal ? 
Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee 
Many a tedious year ; come, give him thy hand and be happy ! 
Thou art too fair to be left to braid St Catherine's tresses." 
Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly : — " I cannot ; 
Whither my heart has gone there follows my hand, and not elsewhere. 
For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the path- 
way, 
Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness." 
And thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor, 
Said with a smile: — " daughter ! thy God thus speaketh within thee \ 
Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; 
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning 
Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; 
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. 
Patience ; accomplish thy labour ; accomplish thy work of affection. 
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. 
Therefore accomplish thy labour of love, till the heart is made god- 
like, 
Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of 

heaven ! " 
Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline laboured and waited. 
Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean, 
But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, " De- 
spair not ! " 
Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort, 
Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. 
Let me essay, Muse ! to follow the wanderer's footsteps ; 
Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence ; 
But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley : 
Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water 
Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only; 
Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal i^ 
Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur ; 
Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet. 

II. 

It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River, 

Past the Ohio shore, and past the mouth of the Wabash, 

Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, 

Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. 

It was a band of exiles : a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked 

Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together, 

Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune : 



EVANGELINE. 25 

Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay, 

Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers 

On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. 

With them Evangehne went, and her guide, the Father Felician. 

Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests. 

Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river ; 

Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. 

Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plume-like 

Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current. 

Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars 

Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin, 

Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. 

Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, 

Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens, 

Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dovecots. 

They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer, 

"Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron, 

Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. 

They, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the Bayou of 

Plaquemine, 
Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters, 
Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. 
Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress 
Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air 
Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals. 
Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons 
Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees retmning at sunset, 
Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. 
Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water, 
Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches, 
Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin. 
Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them; 
And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness, — 
Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed. 
As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies, 
Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa, 
So, at the hoof -beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil, 
Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it. 
But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly 
Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight. 
It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom. 
Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her, 
And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer. 

Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen, 
And, as a signal-sound, if others like them peradventure 
Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his 

bugle. 
Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang. 



2G EVANGELINE. 

Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. 

Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music. 

Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance, 

Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches ; 

But not a voice replied ; no answer came from the darkness ; 

And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence. 

Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight, 

Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat- songs, 

Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers. 

And through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert, 

Far off, indistinct, as of wave or wind in the forest, 

Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator. 

Thus ere another noon they emerged from those shades; and before 
them 
Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya. 
Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations 
Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus 
Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen. 
Faint was the air w T ith the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms, 
And with the heat of noon ; and numberless sylvan islands, 
Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses, 
Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber. 
Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended. 
Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew T by the margin, 
Safely their boat was moored ; and scattered about on the greensward, 
Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered. 
Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar. 
Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grape-vine 
Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob, 
On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending, 
Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom. 
Such was the vision Evangeline saw as sh3 slumbered beneath it. 
Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven 
Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. 

Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands, 
Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water, 
Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. 
Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver. 
At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn. 
Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadnesa 
Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. 
Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, 
Sought in the western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. 
Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island, 
But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos, 
So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows, 
And undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen/were the sleepers; 



EVANGELINE. 2 7 

Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden. 
Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie. 
After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance^ 
As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden 
Said with a sigh to the friendly priest : — " Father Felician ! 
Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. 
Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition ? 
Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit ?" 
Then, with a blush, she added : — " Alas for my credulous fancy ! 
Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning." 
But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered : — 
"Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without 

meaning. 
Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface 
Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden. 
Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions. 
Gabriel truly is near thee ; for not far away to the southward, 
On the banks of the Teche, are the towns of St Maur and St Martin. 
There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom, 
There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold. 
Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of f ruit-trees ; 
Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens 
Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest. 
They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana." 

And with these words of cheer they rose and continued their journey. 
Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon 
Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape; 
Twinkling vapours arose ; and sky and water and forest 
Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together. 
Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, 
Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water. 
Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness. 
Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling 
Glowed with the light of lovo, as the skies and waters around her. 
Then from a neighbouring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singerSj 
Swinging aloft on a willow-spray that hung o'er the water, 
Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, 
That the whole ah and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen. 
Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then soaring to madness 
Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. 
Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation ; 
Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision ; 
As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops 
Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches. 
"With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion, 
Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the green 

Opelousas, 
And through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland, 



28 EVANGELINE. 

Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighbouring dwelling; — 
Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle. 

III. 

Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from whose 

branches 
Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted, 
Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide, 
Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A garden 
Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms, 
Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers 
Hewn from the cypress tree, and carefully fitted together. 
Large and low was the roof ; and on slender columns supported, 
Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda, 
Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it. 
At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden, 
Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol, 
Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals. 
Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow and sunshine 
Ran near the tops of the trees ; but the house itself was in shadow. 
And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding 
Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose. 
In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway 
Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairia, 
Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending. 
Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas 
Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics, 
Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines. 

Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie, 
Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, 
Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin. 
Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero 
Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master. 
Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazing 
Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapoury freshness 
That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape. 
Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding 
Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded 
Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening. 
Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle 
Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean. 
Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie, 
And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in a distance. 
Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the 

garden 
Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him. 
Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward 
Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder; 



EYANGELINE. 29 

When they beheld his face, they recognised Basil the blacksmith. 
Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. 
There in an arbour of roses with endless question and answer 
Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces, 
Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful. 
Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and misgivings 
Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed, 
Broke the silence and said, — " If you came by the Atchafalaya, 
How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous ? " 
Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed. 
Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent, — 
"Gone? is Gabriel gone i " and, concealing her face on his shoulder, 
Ail her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented. 
Then the good Basil said, — and his voice grew blithe as he said it, — 
" Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed. 
Foolish boy ! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses. 
Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit 
CoiiM no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence. 
Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever, 
Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles, 
He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, 
Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him 
Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards. 
Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains, 
Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver. 
Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover; 
He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against 

him. 
Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning 
We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison." 

Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river, 
Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler. 
Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus, 
Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals. 
Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle. 
" Long live Michael," they cried, " our brave Acadian minstrel ! " 
As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession ; and straightway 
Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man 
Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured, 
Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips, 
Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. 
Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant blacksmith, 
All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanour ; 
Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate, 
And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would 

take them ; 
Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewisa 
Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the airy veranda. 



SO EVANGELINE. 

Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil 
Waited his late return ; and they rested and feasted together, 

Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. 
All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver, 
Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; but within doors, 
Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering 

lamplight. 
Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman 
Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion. 
Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco, 
Thus he spake to his guests who listened, and smiled as they listened: — 
" Welcome once more, my friends, who so long have been friendless 

and homeless, 
Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old 

one ! 
Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers ; 
Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. 
Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil as a keel through 

the water. 
All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom ; and grass grows 
More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer. 
Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies; 
Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber 
With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses. 
After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests, 
No King George of England shall drive you away from your 

homesteads, 
Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your 

cattle." 
Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils, 
And his huge, brawny hand came thundering down on the table, 
So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded, 
Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils. 
But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer : — 
" Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever ! 
For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate, 
Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell ! " 
Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching, 
Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda. 
It was the neighbouring Creoles and small Acadian planters, 
Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the herdsman. 
Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbours : 
Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as 

strangers, 
Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other. 
Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. 
But in the neighbouring hall a strain of music, proceeding 
From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle, 



EVANGELINE. 31 

Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted, 
All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening 
Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music, 
Dreamlike, with beaming eyes, and the rush of fluttering garments. 

Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the 
herdsman 
Sat, conversing together of past and present and future ; 
"While Evangel ine stood like one entranced, for within her 
Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music 
Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness 
Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden, 
beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, 
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river 
Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the 

moonlight, 
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit. 
Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden 
Poured out their soul in odours, that were their prayers and confessions 
Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. 
Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night- 
dews, 
Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight 
Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, 
As, through the garden gate, beneath the brown shade of the oak-trees, 
Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie. 
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies 
Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. 
Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, 
Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship, 
Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple, 
As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, " Upharsin.' , 
And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-fiies, 
Wandered alone, and she cried, — " Gabriel ! my beloved ! 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee ? 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me? 
Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie ! 
Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me ! 
Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning from labour, 
Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers ! 
When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee ? " 
Loud and sudden and near the note of a whip-poor-will sounded 
Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through the neighbouring thickets, 
Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. 
" Patience ! " whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness ; 
And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, " To-morrow!" 

Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the garden 
Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses 



32 EVANGELINE. 

With the delicious balin that they bore in their vases of cr^ stal. 
"Farewell!" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold; 
"See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine, 
And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was 

coming." 
fi Farewell ! " answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended 
Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were waiting. 
Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness, 
Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them, 
Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert. 
Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded, 
Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river;. 
Nor, after many days, had they found him ; but vague and uncertain 
Rumours alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country; 
Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, 
Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous 

landlord, 
That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions, 
Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. 

IV. 

Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains 
Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits, 
Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway, 
Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's waggon, 
Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee. 
Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains, 
Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska ; 
And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras, 
Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert^ 
Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean, 
Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations. 
Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies, 
Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, 
Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. 
Over them wander the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck; 
Over them wander the wolves, and herds of riderless horses; 
Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel; 
Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children, 
Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails 
Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture, 
Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle, 
By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. 
Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders; 
Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers 5 
And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert, 
Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side, 
And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven, 
Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. 



EVANGELINE. 33 

Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains, 
Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him. 
Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil 
Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him. 
Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire 
Rise in the morning air from the distant plain ; but at nightfall, 
"When they had reached the j>lace, they f ound only embers and ashes. 
And, though their hearts were sad at times and then- bodies were weary, 
Hope still guided them en. as the magic Fata Morgana 
Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before 
them. 

Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered 
Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features 
W^cre deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. 
She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people, 
From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, 
Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered, 
Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest 

welcome 
Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them 
On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers. 
But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions, 
Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison, 
Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering 

fire-light- 
Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their 

blankets, 
Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated 
Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, 
All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses. 
Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another 
Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. 
Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion, 
Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her, 
She in turn related her love and all its disasters. 
Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended 
Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror 
Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis ; 
Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden, 
But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam, 
Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sun shine, 
Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest. 
Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, 
Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom, 
That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the 

twilight, 
Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden. 
Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest, 



£4 EVANGELINE. 

And never more returned, nor was seen again by her people. 
Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened 
To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her 
Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress, 
Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose, 
Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendour 
Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland. 
With a delicious soimd the brook rushed by, and the branches 
Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers. 
Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret, 
Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror, 
As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow. 
It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits 
Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment 
That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom. 
And with this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had 
vanished. 

Early upon the morrow the march was resumed; and the Shawnee 
Said, as they journeyed along, — " On the western slope of these 

mountains. 
Dwells in his little village the Black Eobe chief of the Mission. 
Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus; 
Loud laugh their hearts with j oy, and weep with pain, as they hear him. M 
Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered,— 
" Let us go to the Mission, tor there good tidings await us ! " 
Thither they turned their steeds ; and behind a spur of the mountains, 
Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices, 
And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river, 
Saw the fcents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission. 
Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village, 
Knelt the Black Kobe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened 
High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape-vines, 
Looked with its agonised face on the multitude kneeling beneath it. 
This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches 
Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers, 
Ming] tng its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches. 
Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching, 
Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions, 
But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen 
Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the 

sower, 
Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them 
Welcome ; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression, 
Hearing the home-like sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest, 
And with words of kindness conducted them into his wigwam. 
There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear 
Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher. 
Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered: — 



EVANGELINE. 35 

" Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated 
On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes, 
Told me this same sad tale; then arose and continued his journey 1" 
Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kind- 
ness; 
But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes 
Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. 
"Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest; "but in autumn, 
When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission.' ' 
Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive, — 
"Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted." 
So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow, 
Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions, 
Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other, — 
Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were 

springing 
Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above 

her, 
Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming 
Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels 
Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maideno 
Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, 
But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-field. 
Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover. 
" Patience ! " the priest would say; " have faith, and thy prayer will 

be answered ! 
Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow, 
See how its leaves all point to the north, as true as the magnet ; 
It is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has suspended 
Here on its fragile stalk, to direct the traveller's journey 
Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. 
Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion, 
Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance, 
But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odour is deadly. 
Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter 
Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of 

nepenthe." 

So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter, — yet Gabriel 
came not; 
Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and blue- 
bird 
Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not. 
But on the breath of the summer winds a rumour was wafted 
Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odour of blossom. 
Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests, 
Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw river. 



38 EVANGELINE. 

And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St Lawrence, 
Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission. 
When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches, 
She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests, 
Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin ! 

Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places 
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden ; — 
Now in the tents of grace of the meek Moravian Missions, 
Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army, 
Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. 
Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. 
Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey; 
Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. 
Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty, 
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow. 
Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of grey o'er her fom 

head, 
Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon, 
As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. 

Y. 
In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, 
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, 
Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. 
There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, 
And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest, 
As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested. 
There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, 
Finding among the children of Fenn a home and a country. 
There old Rene Leblanc had died; and when he departed, 
Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. 
Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city, 
Something that spoke to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger; 
And her ear was pleased with the " thee" and " thou" of the Quakers, 
For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, 
Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. 
So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavour, 
Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining, 
Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her 

footsteps. 
As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning 
Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, 
Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, 
So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below hor, 
Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and the pathway 
Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance. 
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, 
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld Lim, 



EVANGELINE. 37 

Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence. 

Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. 

Over him years had no power ; he was net changed, but transfigured; 

He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent ; 

Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, 

This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. 

So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices, 

Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. 

Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow 

Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. 

Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; frequenting 

Lonely and wretched roofs hi the crowded lanes of the city, 

Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight, 

Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. 

Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman 

repeated 
Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, 
High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. 
Day after day, in the grey of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs 
Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market, 
Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. 

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, 
Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons, 
Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an 

acorn. 
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, 
Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow, 
So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin, 
Spread to a brackish lake the silver stream of existence. 
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor : 
But ail perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger ; — 
Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, 
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. 
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and wood- 
lands ; — 
"Now the city surrounds it ; but still, with its gateway and wicket 
Meek, in the midst of splendour, its humble walls seem to- echo ' 
Softly the words of the Lord : — " The poor ye always have with you." 
Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying 
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there 
Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendour, 
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles, 
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. 
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, 
Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter. 

Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent, 
Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. 



38 EVANGELINE. 

Sweet on the summer air was the odour of flowers in the garden ; 
And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, 
That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and oeauty. 
Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east 

wind, 
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ 

Church, 
While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted 
Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at 

Wicaco. 
Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit ; 
Something within her said, — " At length thy trials are ended ; *" 
And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness. 
Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, 
Moistening the feverish lip and the aching brow, and in silence 
Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces, 
Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the road-side. 
Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, 
Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence 
Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. 
And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, 
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it for ever. 
Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time ; 
Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. 

Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, 
Still she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a shudder 
Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from 

her fingers, 
And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. 
Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, 
That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. 
On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. 
Long, and thin, and grey were the locks that shaded his temples ; 
But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment 
Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood ; 
So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. 
Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, 
As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals, 
That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. 
Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted 
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness,, 
Darkness of slumber and death, for ever sinking and sinking. 
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, 
Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded 
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, 
" Gabriel ! my beloved ! " and died away into silence. 
Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood*, 
Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among theim. 



EVANGELINE. 39 

Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their 

shadow, 
As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. 
Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, 
Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. 
Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered 
Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would 

have spoken. 
Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, 
Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. 
Sweet was the light of his eyes ; but it suddenly sank into darkness, 
As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. 

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, 
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, 
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience 1 
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, 
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee !" 



Still stands the forest primeval ; but far away from its shadow, 
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. 
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard, 
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. 
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, 
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for ever; 
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy; 
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labours ; 
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey ] 

Still stands the forest j)rimeval ; but under the shade of its branches 
Dwells another race, with other customs and language. 
Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic 
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile 
Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. 
In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy; 
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun. 
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, 
"While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced neighbouring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



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PRELUDE. 



Pleasant it was, when woods were green, 

And winds were soft and low, 
To lie amid some sylvan scene, 
Where, the long drooping boughs between, 
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 

Alternate come and go; 

Or where the denser grove receives 

No sunlight from above, 
But the dark foliage interweaves 
In one unbroken roof of leaves, 
Underneath whose sloping eaves 

The shadows hardly move. 

Beneath some patriarchal tree 

I lay upon the ground; 
His hoary arms uplifted he, 
And all the broad leaves over me 
Clapped their little hands in glee, 

With one continuous sound, — 

A slumberous sound, — a sound that brings 

The feelings of a dream, — 
As of innumerable wings, 



PRELUDE. 41 

Afi, when a bell no longer swings, 
Faint the hollow murmur rings 
O'er meadow, lake, and stream. 

And dreams of that which cannot die, 

Bright visions, came to me, 
As lapped in thought I used to lie, 
And gaze into the summer sky, 
Where the sailing clouds went by, 

Like ships upon the sea ; 

Dreams that the soul of youth engage 

Ere Fancy has been quelled; 
Old legends of the monkish page, 
Traditions of the saint and sage, 
Tales that have the rime of age, 

And chronicles of Eld. 

And, loving still these quaint old themes, 

Even in the city's throng 
I feel the freshness of the streams, 
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, 
Water the green land of dreams, 

The holy land of song. 

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings 

The Spring, clothed like a bride, 
When nestling buds unfold their wings, 
And bishop's-caps have golden rings, 
Musing upon many things, 

I sought the woodlands wide. 

The green trees whispered low and mild; 

It was a sound of joy ! 
They were my playmates when a child, 
And rocked me in their arms so wild ! 
Still they looked at me and smiled, 

As if I were a boy; 

And ever whispered, mild and low, 

" Come, be a child once more ! *' 
And waved their long arms to and fro. 
And beckoned solemnly and slow ; 
Oh, I could not choose but go 

Into the woodlands hoar; 

Into the blithe and breathing air, 

Into the solemn wood, 
Solemn and silent everywhere ! 
Nature with folded hands seemed there. 
Kneeling at her evening prayer ! 

Like one in prayer I stood. 



42 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

.Before me rose an avenue 

Of tall and sombrous pines ; 
Abroad their fan-like branches grew, 
And, where the sunshine darted through, 
Spread a vapour soft and blue, 
In long and sloping lines. 

And, falling on my weary brain, 
Like a fast-falling shower, 

The dreams of youth came back again ; 

Low lispings of the summer rain, 

Dropping on the 'ripened grain ; 
As once upon the flower. 

Yisions of childhood ! stay, oh, stay ! 

Ye were so sweet and wild ! 
And distant voices seemed to say, 
" It cannot be ! They pass away ! 
Other themes demand thy lay ; 

Thou art no more a child ! 

u The land of Song within thee lies, 

Watered by living springs ; 

The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes 

Are gates unto that Paradise, 

Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, 

Its clouds are angels' wings. 

" Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, 
Not mountains capped with snow, 
"Nor forests sounding like the sea, 
Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, 
Where the woodlands bend to see 
The bending heavens below. 

" There is a forest where the din 

Of iron branches sounds ! 
A mighty river roars between, 
And whosoever looks therein, 
Sees the heavens all black with sin, — 

Sees not its depths nor bounds. 

" Athwart the swinging branches cast, 
Soft rays of sunshine pour ; 

Then comes the fearful wintry blast ; 

Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast; 

Pallid lips say, i It is past ! 
We can return no more ! ' 

" Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! 
Yes, into Life's deep stream ! 
All forms of sorrow and delight. 







Rpfor^ niprnsp nn avenue 
Of tall and suuibrous pines. 



' 






A PSALM OF LIFE. 43 



All solemn Voices of the Night, 
That can soothe thee, or affright, — 
Be these henceforth thy theme." 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 
* kcnrao-iriy rpiAXttrros. 

I heard the trailing garments of the Night 

Sweep through her marble hails ! 
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 

From the celestial walls ! 
I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

The manifold soft chimes, 
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before ! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 

Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer ! 

Descend with broad-winged flight, 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, tho most fair, 

The best beloved Night ! 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 

" Life is but an empty dream ! " 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; - 
u Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 

Was not spoken of the soul. 



44 VOICES OP THE NIGHT. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
Is our destined end or way ; 

But to act, that each to-morrow 
Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like mn filed drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle. 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act, — act in the living Present ! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time ; — 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 
With a heart for any fate ; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labour and to wait. 



THE 11EAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 

Tbere is a reaper, whose name is Death, 

And, with his sickle keen, 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 

And the flowers that grow between. 

" Shall I have nought that is fair ? " saith he ; 
" Have nought but the bearded grain ; 
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 
I will give them all back again." 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 

He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
It was for the Lord of Paradise 

He bound them in his sheaves. 



THE LIGHT OF STARS. 

•'•' My Lord has need of these flowerets gay/' 
The Reaper said, and smiled ; 
(: Dear tokens of the earth are they, 
Where he was once a child. 

" They shall all bloom in fields of light, 
Transplanted by my care; 
And saints, upon their garments white, 
These sacred blossoms wear." 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 
The flowers she most did love ; 

She knew she should find them all again 
In the fields of light above. 

Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 

The Reaper came that day; 
'Twas an angel visited the green earth 

And took the flowers away. 



45 



THE LIGHT OF STARS. 

The night is come, but not too soon: 

And sinking silently, 
All silently, the little moon 

Drops down behind the sky. 

There is no light in earth or heaven 

But the cold light of stars; 
And the first watch of night is given 

To the red planet Mars. 

Is it the tender star of love ? 

The star of love and dreams? 
Oh, no ! from that blue tent above, 

A hero's armour gleams. 

And earnest thoughts within me rise, 

"When I behold afar, 
Suspended in the evening skies, 

The shield of that red star. 

star of strength ! I see thee stand 
And smile upon my pain ; 

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 
And I am strong again. 

Within my breast there is no light 
But the cold light of stars; 

1 give the first watch of the night 
To the red planet Mars. 



4G VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

The star of the unconquered will, 
He rises in my breast, 

Serene, and resolute, and still, 
And calm, and self-possessed. 

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, 
That readest this brief psalm, 

As one by one thy hopes depart, 
Be resolute and calm. 

Oh, fear not in a world like this, 
And thou shalt know ere long, 

Know how sublime a thing it is 
To suffer and be strong. 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 

When the hours of Day are numbered^ 

And the voices of the Night 
"Wake the better soul, that slumbered, 

To a holy, calm delight ; 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, like phantoms grim and tall, 

Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
Dance upon the parlour wall; 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door; 
The beloved, the true-hearted, 

Come to visit me once more; 

He, the young and strong, who cherished 
Noble longings for the strife, 

By the road-side fell and perished, 
Weary with the march of life ! 

They, the holy ones and weakly, 
Who the cross of suffering bore, 

Folded their pale hands so meekly, 
Spake with us on earth no more ! 

And with them the Being Beauteous, 
Who unto my youth was given, 

More than all things else to love me; 
And is now a saint in heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes that messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine. 



FLOWERS. 

And she sits and gazes at me 

With those deep and tender eyes, 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Uttered not, yet comprehended, 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
Breathing from her lips of air. 

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, 
All my fears are laid aside, 

If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died ! 



47 



FLOWERS. 

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 

When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, 
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine ; — 

Stars they are, wherein we read our history. 

As astrologers and seers of eld ; 
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, 

Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars above ; 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation, 

Written all over this great world of ours ; 

Making evident our own creation, 

In these stars of earth, — these golden flowers. 

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, 
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 

Of the self-same universal being 

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, 
Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues. 

Flaunting gaily in the golden light ; 
Large desires, with most uncertain issues, 

Tender wishes, blossoming at night I 



48 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

These in flowers and men are more than seeming, 
Workings are they of the self -same powers, 

"Which the poet, in no idle dreaming, 
Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 

Everywhere about us are they glowing, 
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; 

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, 
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ; 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, 
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, 

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing. 
In the centre of his brazen shield ; 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
On the mountain-top, and by the brink 

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, 
Where the slaves of Nature stoop- to drink ; 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 
Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 

But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; 

In the cottage of the rudest peasant, 

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, 

Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; 

In all places, then, and in all seasons, 

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, 

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 
How akin they are to human things. 

And with childlike, credulous affection 
We behold their tender buds expand; 

Emblems of our own great resurrection 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 

I have read, in some old marvellous tale, 
Some legend strange and vague, 

That a midnight host of spectres pale 
Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
With the wan moon overhead, 

There stood, as in an awful dream, 
The army of the dead. 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 

White as a sea-fog, landward bound, 

The spectral camp was seen, 
And with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

The river flowed between. 

No other voice nor sound was there, 

No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 
The mist-like banners clasped the air, 

As clouds with clouds embrace. 

But, when the old cathedral bell 
Proclaimed the morning prayer, 

The white pavilions rose and fell 
On the alarmed air. 

Down the broad valley fast and far 

The troubled army fled; 
Up rose the glorious morning star, 

The ghastly host was dead. 

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, 

That strange and mystic scroll, 
That an army of phantoms vast and wan 

Beleaguer the human souL 

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, 

In Fancy's misty light, 
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 

Portentous through the night. 

Upon its midnight battle-ground 

The spectral camp is seen, 
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

Flows the River of Life between. 

No other voice nor soimd is there, 

In the army of the grave; 
No other challenge breaks the air, 

But the rushing of Life's wave. 

And, when the solemn and deep ehurch-beil 

Entreats the soul to pray, 
The midnight phantoms feel the spell, 

The shadows sweep away. 

Down the broad Yale of Tears afar 

The spectral camp is fled; 
Faith shineth as a morning star, 

Our ghastly fears are dead. 



40 



'• 



60 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR, 

Yes, the Year is growing old, 

And his eye is palo and bleared ! 
Death, with frosty hand and cold, 

Plucks the old man by the beard, 
Sorely, — sorely ! 

The leaves are falling, falling, 

Solemnly and slow; 
Caw ! caw ! the rooks are calling, 

It is a sound of woe, 
A sound of woe ! 

Through woods and mountain-passes 

The winds, like anthems, roll; 
They are chanting solemn masses, 

Singing, " Pray for this poor soul, 
Pray, — pray ! " 

And the hooded clouds, like friars, 

Tell their beads in drops of rain, 
And patter their doleful prayers ; — 

But their prayers are all in vain, 
All in vain ! 

There he stands in the foul weather, 

The foolish, fond Old Year, 
Crowned with wild flowers and with heatiiei, 

Like weak, despised Lear, 
A king, — a king ! 

Then comes the summer-like day, 

Bids the old man rejoice! 
His joy ! his last ! Oh, the old man grey 

Loveth that ever-soft voice, 
Gentle and low. 

To the crimson woods he saith, — 

To the voice gentle and low 
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, — 

" Pray do not mock me so ! 
Do not laugh at me ! " 

And now the sweet day is dead; 

Cold in his arms it lies; 
No stain from its breath is spread 

Over the glassy skies, 
No mist or stain J 



AN APEIL DAY. 51 



Then, too, the Old Year dieth, 
And the forests utter a moan, 

Like the voice of one who crietk 
In the wilderness alone, 
u Vex not his ghost ! " 

Then comes, with an awful roar, 
Gathering and sounding on, 

The storm-wind from Labrador, 
The wind Euroclydon, 
The storm-wind ! 

Howl ! howl ! and from the forest 
Sweep the red leaves awav ! 

Would the sins that thou abhorrest, 
Soul ! could thus decay, 
And be swept away 1 

For there shall come a mightier blast, 

There shall be a darker day ; 
And fche stars, from heaven down cast, 
Like red leaves be swept away ! 
Kyrie, eleyson ! 
Christe, eleyson! 



EARLIEE POEMS. 



[These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of 
them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, 
and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence 
in the corners of newspapers ; or have changed their names and run away 
to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, 
on a similar occasion, " I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, 
which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings 
in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world 
together in a more decorous garb."] 

AN APRIL DAY. 

When the warm sun, that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 

The first flower of the plain. 

I love the season well, 
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 

The coming on of storms. 



62 EAKLIEE POEMS. 

From the earth's loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives ; 
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, 

The drooping tree revives. 

The softly-warbled song 
Comes from the pleasant woods, and coloured wings 
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along 

The forest openings. 

When the bright sunset fills 
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 

And wide the upland glows. 

And when the eve is born, 
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 

And twinkles many a star. 

Inverted in the tide, 
Stand the grey rocks, and trembling shadows throw, 
And the fair trees look over, side by side, 
And see themselves below. 

Sweet April ! — many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; 
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, 

Life's golden fruit is shed. 



AUTUMN. 

With what a glory comes and goes the year ! 
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers 
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy 
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out ; 
And when the silver habit of the clouds 
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with 
A sober gladness the old year takes up 
His bright inheritance of golden fruits, 
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. 

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now 
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, 
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, 
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, 
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. 
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, 




And wrl'Pti the eve is born 

Tlit' moon <lips her } 
And twiukles wauy a st*r. 



WOODS IN WESTER. 63 

Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales 
The gentle Wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, 
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life 
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, 
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, 
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down 
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees 
The golden robin moves. The purple finch, 
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, 
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, 
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud 
From cottage-roofs the warbling blue-bird sings; 
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, 
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flaiL 

Oh, what a glory doth this world put on 
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth 
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks 
On duties well performed, and days well spent ! 
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, 
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. 
He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death 
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go 
To his long resting-place without a tear. 



WOODS IN WINTER. 

When winter winds are piercing chill, 

And through the hawthorn blows the ga'le. 

With solemn feet I tread the liill 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 

O'er the bare upland, and away 

Through the long reach of desert woods, 
The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 

And gladden these deep solitudes. 

Where, twisted round the barren oak, 
The summer vine in beauty clung, 

And summer winds the stillness broke, 
The crystal icicle is hung. 

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 
Pour out the river's gradual tide, 

Shrilly the skater's iron rings, 

And voices fill the woodland side. 



EARLIER POEMS. 

Alas t how changed from the fair scene, 
When birds sang out their mellow lay, 

And winds were soft, and woods were green, 
And the song ceased not with the day. 

But still wild music is abroad, 

Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; 
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, 

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 

Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 
Has grown familiar with your song; 

I hear it in the opening year, — 
I listen, and it cheers me long. 



HYMN 



OP THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, 
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. 

When the dying flame of day 
Through the chancel shot its ray, 
Far the glimmering tapers shed 
Faint light on the cowled head ; 
And the censer burning swung, 
Where, before the altar, hung 
The blood-red banner, that with prayer 
Had been consecrated there. 
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, 
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. 

" Take thy banner ! May it wave 
Proudly o'er the good and brave; 
When the battle's distant wail 
Breaks the sabbath of our vale, 
When the clarion's music thrills 
To the hearts of these lone hills, 
When the spear in conflicts shakes, 
And the strong lance shivering breaks. 

" Take thy banner ! and, beneath 
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, 
Guard it ! — till our homes are free ! 
Guard it ! — God will prosper thee ! 
In the dark and trying hour, 
In the breaking forth of power, 
In the rush of steeds and men, 
His right hand will shield thee then. 



SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. 55 

" Take thy banner ! But, when night 
Closes round the ghastly fight, 
If the vanquished warrior bow, 
Spare him ! — By our holy vow, 
By our prayers and many tears^ 
By the mercy that endears, 
Spare him ! — he our love hath shared : 
Spare him! — as thou wouldst be spared! 

* Take thy banner ! — and if e'er 
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, 
And the muffled drum should beat 
To the tread of mournful feet, 
Then this crimson flag shall be 
Martial cloak and shroud for thee." 

The warrior took that banner proud, 
And it was his martial cloak and shroud ! 



SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. 
I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch 
Was glorious with the sun's returning march, 
And woods were brightened, and soft gales 
Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. 
The clouds were far beneath me; — bathed in light, 
They gathered mid-way round the wooded height, 
And, in their fading glory, shone 
Like hosts in battle overthrown, 
As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, 
Through the grey mist thrust up its shattered lance,, 
And rocking on the cliff was left 
The dark pine, blasted, bare, and cleft. 
The veil of cloud was lifted, and below 
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow 
Was darkened by the forest's shade, 
Or glistened in the white cascade; 
Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, 
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. 

I heard the distant waters dash, 
I saw the current whirl and flash, — 
And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, 
The woods were bending with a silent reach ; 
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, 
The music of the village bell 
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; 
And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, 
Was ringing to the merry shout, 
That faint and far the glen sent out, 



5G EARLIER POEJMS. 

Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, 
Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. 

If thou art worn and hard beset 
With sorrows that thou wouldst forget, 
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep 
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, 
Go to the woods and hills ! — No tears 
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears* 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 

There is a quiet spirit in these woods, 

That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows; 

Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, 

The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, 

The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. 

With what a tender and impassioned voice 

It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, 

When the fast-ushering star of morning comes 

O'er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf; 

Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve, 

In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, 

Departs with silent pace ! That spirit moves 

In the green valley, where the silver brook, 

From its full laver, pours the white cascade; 

And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, 

Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter, 

And frequent, on the everlasting hills, 

Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself 

In all the dark embroidery of the storm, 

And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid 

The silent majesty of these deep woods, 

Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, 

As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air 

Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards 

Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. 

For them there was an eloquent voice in all 

The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, 

The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, 

Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, — 

The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun 

Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, — 

Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, 

Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, 

The distant lake, fountains, — and mighty trees^ 

In many a lazy syllable, repeating 

Their old poetic legends to the wind. 



BUKIAL OF THE MINNISLNTK 

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill 
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth. 
My busy fancy oft embodies it. 
As a bright image of the light and beauty 
That dwell in nature, — of the heavenly forms 
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues 
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds 
When the sun sets. Within her eye 
The heaven of April, with its changing light, 
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, 
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair 
Is like the summer tresses of the trees, 
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek 
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, 
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, 
It is so like the gentle air of Spring, 
As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes 
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy 
To have it round us, — and her silver voice 
Is the rich music of a summer bird, 
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 

On sunny slope arid beechen swell, 
The shadowed light of evening fell : 
And, where the maple's leaf was brown. 
With soft and silent lapse came down 
The glory, that the wood receives, 
At sunset, in its brazen leaves. 

Far upward in the mellow light 

Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white. 

Around a far uplifted cone, 

In the warm blush of evening shone; 

An image of the silver lakes, 

By which the Indian's- soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
Where the soft breath of evening stirred 
The tall, grey forest; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, 
Came winding down beside the wave, 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 

They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers. 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior's head; 



58 TRANSLATIONS. 

But, as the summer fruit decays, 
So died he in those naked days. 

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Covered the warrior, and within 
Its heavy folds the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid ; 
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds. 
And the broad belt of shells and beads. 

Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death-dirge of the slain ; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, 
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, 
Leading the war-horse of their chief. 

Stripped of his proud and martial dress, 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, 
With darting eye, and nostril spread, 
And heavy and impatient tread, 
He came ; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief, they freed 
Beside the grave his battle steed; 
And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart ! One piercing neigh 
Arose, — and, on the dead man's plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

[Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem, flourished in the last 
half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms, and 
died on the field of battle. Mariana, in his History of Spain, makes 
honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Ucles; and 
speaks of him as "a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave 
brilliant proofs of his valour. He died young ; and was thus cut off from 
long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of 
his genius, which was already known to fame." He was mortally wounded 
in a skirmish near Canavcte, in the year 1479. 

The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Paredes 
and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. Es 



COPLAS PE MANBIQUE. 



50 



died in 1476 ; according to Mariana, in the town of Ucles ; but according to 
the poem of his son, in Ocana. It was his death that called forth the poem 
upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique. In the 
language of his historian, " Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant Ode, full of 
poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and high moral reflections, 
mourned the death of his father as with a funeral hymn." This praise is not 
exaggerated. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn 
and beautiful ; and, in accordance with it, the style moves on — calm, digni- 
fied, and majestic] 

let the soul her slumbers break, 
Let thought be quickened, and awake \ 
Awake to see 

How soon this life is past and gone, 
And death comes softly stealing on, 
How silently ! 

Swiftly our pleasures glide away, 
Our hearts recall the distant day 
With many sighs ; 
The moments that are speeding fast 
We heed not, but the past, — the past,— 
More highly prize. 

Onward its course the present keeps, 
Onward the constant current sweeps, 
Till life is done ; 

And, did we judge of time aright, 
The past and future in their flight 
Would be as one. 

Let no one fondly dream again 
That Hope and all her shadowy train 
Will not decay ; 

Fleeting as were the dreams of old, 
Remembered like a tale that 's told, 
They pass away. 

Our lives are rivers, gliding free 
To that unfathomed, boundless sea, 
The silent grave ! 

Thither all e art lily pomp and boast 
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 
In one dark wave. 



Thither the mighty torrents stray, 
Thither the brook pursues its way, 
And tinkling rilL 

There all are equal. Side by side 
The poor man and the son of pride 
Lie calm and stilL 



60 TRANSLATIONS. 

I will not here invoke the throng 

Of orators and sons of song, 

The deathless few; 

Fiction entices and deceives, 

And sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves 

Lies poisonous dew. 

To One alone my thoughts arise, 

The Eternal Truth, — the Good and Wise, — 

To Him I cry, 

Who shared on earth our common lot, 

But the world comprehended not 

His deity. 

This world is but the rugged road 
Which leads us to the bright abode 
Of peace above ; 

So let us choose that narrow way, 
Which leads no traveller's foot astray 
From realms of love. 

Our cradle is the starting-place, 
In life we run the onward race, 
And reach the goal ; 
When, in the mansions of the blest, 
Death leaves to its eternal rest 
The weary soul. 

Did we but use it as we ought, 

This world would school each wandering thought 

To its high state. 

Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, 

Up to that better world on high, 

For which we wait. 

Yes, — the glad Messenger of love, 
To guide us to our home above, 
The Saviour came ; 
Born amid mortal cares and fears, 
He suffered in this vale of tears 
A death of shame. 

Behold of what delusive worth 
The bubbles we pursue on earth, 
The shapes we chase, 
Amid a world of treachery ! 
They vanish ere death shuts the eye, 
And leave no trace. 

Time steals them from us, — chances strange, 
Disastrous accidents, and change, 



COPLAS DE MA^KIQUE. 61 

That come to all; 
Even in the most exalted state, 
Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate; 
The strongest fall. 

Tell me, — the charms that lovers seek 
In the clear eye and blushing cheek, 
The hues that play 
O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, 
When hoary age approaches slow, 
Ah, where are they? 

The cunning skill, the curious arts, 
The glorious strength that youth imparts 
In life's first stage; 
These shall become a heavy weight, 
When Time swings wide his outward gate 
To weary Age. 

The noble blood of Gothic name, 
Heroes emblazoned high to fame, 
In long array ; 

How, in the onward course of time, 
The landmarks of that race sublime 
'Were swept away ! 

Some, the degraded slaves of lust, 
Prostrate and trampled in the dust, 
Shall rise no more ; 
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain 
The scutcheon, that, without a stain, 
Their fathers bore. 

Wealth and the high estate of pride, 

With what untimely speed they glide, 

How soon depart ! 

Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, 

The vassals of a mistress they, 

Of fickle heart. 

These gifts in fortune's hands are found : 
Her swift revolving wheel turns round, 
And they are gone ! 
"No rest the inconstant goddess knows, 
But changing, and without repose, 
Still hurries on. 

Even could the hand of avarice save 
Its gilded baubles, till the grave 



62 TRANSLATIONS. 

Reclaimed its prey, 
Let none on such poor hopes rely ; 
Life, like an empty dream, flits by, 
And where are they ? 

Earthly desires and sensual lust 

Are passions springing from the dust, — 

They fade and die ; 

But, in the life beyond the tomb, 

They seal the immortal spirit's doom 

Eternally ! 

The pleasures and delights, which mask 
In treacherous smiles life's serious task, 
What are they, all, 
But the fleet coursers of the chase, 
And death an ambush in the race, 
Wherein we fall? 

ISTo foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, 
Brook no delay, — but onward speed 
With loosened rein ; 
And, when the fatal snare is near, 
We strive to check our mad career, 
But strive in vain. 

Could we new charms to age impart, 
And fashion with a cunning art 
The human face, 

As we can clothe the soul with light, 
And make the glorious spirit bright 
With heavenly grace,— 

How busily each passing hour 
Should we exert that magic power ! 
What ardour show, 
To deck the sensual slave of sin, 
Yet leave the freeborn soul within, 
In weeds of woe. 

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, 

Famous in history and in song 

Of olden time, 

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, 

Their kingdoms lost, and desolate 

Their race sublime. 

Who is the champion? who the strong? 
Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng! 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUB. 

On these shall fall 

As heavily the hand of Death, 

As when it stays the shepherd's breath 

Beside his stall. 

I speak not of the Trojan name, 

Neither its glory nor its shame 

Has met our eyes ; 

Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, 

Though we have heard so oft, and read, 

Their histories. 

Little avails it now to know 
Of ages passed so long ago, 
Nor how they rolled ; 
Our theme shall be of yesterday, 
Which to oblivion sweeps away. 
Like days of old. 

Where is the King, Don Juan? Where 

Each royal prince and noble heir 

Of Aragon? 

Where are the courtly gallantries ? 

The deeds of love and high emprise, 

In battle done? 

Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye,, 

And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, 

And nodding plume, — 

What were they but a pageant scene? 

What but the garlands, gay and green, 

That deck the tomb? 

Where are the high-born dames, and where 
Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, 
And odours sweet? 

Where are the gentle knights, that came 
To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame, 
Low at their feet? 

Where is the song of Troubadour? 

Where are the lute and gay tambour 

They loved of yore ? 

Where is the mazy dance of old, 

The flowing robes, inwrought with gold. 

The dancers wore? 

And he w r ho next the sceptre swayed, 
Henry, whose royal court displayed 



63 



61 TRANSLATIONS. 

Such power and pride; 
Oh, in what winning smiles arrayed, 
The world its various pleasures laid 
His throne beside ! 

But oh ! how false and full of guile 
That world, which wore so soft a smile 
But to betray ! 

She, that had been his friend before, 
Now from the fated monarch tore 
Her charms away. 

The countless gifts, — the stately walls, 

The royal palaces, and halls 

All filled with gold; 

Plate with armorial bearings wrought, 

Chambers with ample treasures fraught 

Of wealth untold; 

The noble steeds, and harness bright, 
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, 
In rich array, — 

Where shall we seek them now ? Alas ! 
Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, 
They passed away. 

His brother, too, whose factious zeal 
Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 
Unskilled to reign; 
What a gay, brilliant court had he, 
When all the flower of chivalry 
Was in his train ! 

But he was mortal; and the breath, 
That flamed from the hot forge of Death, 
Blasted his years ; 

Judgment of God ! that flame by thee, 
When raging fierce and fearfully, 
Was quenched in tears ! 

Spain's haughty Constable, — the true 
And gallant Master, whom we knew 
Most loved of all : 

Breathe not a whisper of his pride, — 
He on the gloomy scaffold died, 
Ignoble fall 1 

The countless treasures of his care, 
His hamlets green, and cities fair, 




The nob'e steeds, and harness bncht, 
.And ifaiUnt lord, and stalwart knight, 
I u rich an ay ! 



COPLAS DE MAXRIQUE. 6r 

His mighty power, — 
What were they all but grief and shame. 
Tears and a broken heart, when came 
The parting hour ? 

His other brothers, proud and high, 
Masters, who, in prosperity, 
Might rival kings; 
Who made the bravest and the best 
The bondsmen of their high behest, 
Their underlings ; 

What was their prosperous estate, 
When high exalted and elate 
With power and pride ? 
What, but a transient gleam of light, 
A flame, which, glaring at its height, 
Grew dim and died ? 

So many a duke of royal name, 
Marquis and count of spotless fame, 
And baron brave, 

That might the sword of empire wield, 
All these, £>eath, hast thou concealed 
In the dark grave ! 

Their deeds of mercy and of arms 
In peaceful days, or war's alarms, 
When thou dost show, 
Death ! thy stern and angry face, 
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace 
Can overthrow 

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh. 
Pennon and standard flaunting high, 
And flag displayed ; 
High battlements intrenched around, 
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, 
And palisade, 

And covered trench, secure and deep, — 

All these cannot one victim keep, 

O Death ! from thee, 

When thou dost battle in thy wrath, 

And thy strong shafts pursue their path 

Unerringly. 

O World ! so few the years we live, 
Would that the life which thou dost give 



o3 



TRANSLATIONS. 

Were life indeed ! 
Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast, 
Our happiest hour is when at last 
The soul is freed. 

Our days are covered o'er with grief. 
And sorrows neither few nor brief 
Veil all in gloom ; 
Left desolate of real good, 
"Within this cheerless solitude 
No pleasures bloom. 

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair ; 
Midway so many toils appear, 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 

Thy goods are bought with many a groan 5 

By the hot sweat of toil alone, 

And weary hearts ; 

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 

But with a lingering step and slow 

Its form departs. 

And he, the good man's shield and shade, 
To whom all hearts their homage paid, 
As Virtue's son, — 
Roderic Manrique, — he whose name 
Is written on the scroll of Fame, 
Spain's champion ; 

His signal deeds and prowess high 

Demand no pompous eulogy, — 

Ye saw his deeds ! 

Why should their praise in verse be sung ? 

The name that dwells on every tongue 

No minstrel needs. 

To friends a friend ; — how kind to all 
The vassals of this ancient hall 
And feudal fief ! 
To foes how stern a foe was he ! 
And to the valiant and the free 
How brave a chief ! 

What prudence with the old and wise ; 
What grace in youthful gaieties ; 



COPLAS DE MAJSTRIQTjE. „ 67 

In all how sage ! 

Benignant to the serf and slave, 

He showed the base and falsely brave 

A lion's rage. 

His was Octavian's prosperous star, 

The rush of Caesar's conquering car 

At battle's call ; 

His, Scipio's virtue ; his, the skill 

And the indomitable will 

Of Hannibal. 

His was a Trajan's goodness, — his 

A Titus' noble charities 

And righteous laws; 

The arm of Hector, and the might 

Of Tully, to maintain the right 

In truth's just cause; 

The clemency of Antonine, 
Aurelius' countenance divine. 
Firm, gentle, still; 
The eloquence of Adrian, 
And Theodosius' love to man, 
And generous will; 

In tented field and bloody fray. 
An Alexander's vigorous sway 
And stern command ; 
The faith of Constantine ; ay, more, 
The fervent love Camillus bore 
His native land. 

He left no well-filled treasury, 

He heaped no pile of riches high, 

Kor massive plate ; 

He fought the Moors, — and, in their falL 

City and tower and castled wall 

Were his estate. 

Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, 
Brave steeds and gallant riders found 
A common grave; 

And there the warrior's hand did gain 
The rents and the long vassal train, 
That conquest gave. 

And if, of old, his halls displayed 
The honoured and exalted grade 






68 TRANSLATIONS. 

His worth, had gained, 
So, in the dark, disastrous hour, 
Brothers and bondsmen of his power 
His hand sustained. 



After high deeds, not left untold, 
In the stern warfare, which of old 
'Twas his to share, 

Such noble leagues he made, that more 
And fairer regions, than before, 
His guerdon were. 

These are the records, half effaced, 

Which, with the hand of youth, he traced 

On history's page; 

But with fresh victories he drew 

Each fading character anew 

In his old age. 

By his unrivalled skill, by great 
Aid veteran service to the state, 
By worth adored, 
He stood, in his high dignity, 
The proudest knight of chivalry, 
Knight of the Sword. 

He found his cities and domains 
Beneath a tyrant's galling chains 
And cruel power; 
But, by fierce battle and blockade, 
Soon his own banner was displayed 
From every tower. 

By the tried valour of his hand, 

His monarch and his native land 

Were nobly served; — 

Let Portugal repeat the story, 

And proud Castile, who shared the glory 

His arms deserved. 

And when so oft, for weal or woe. 

His life upon the fatal throw 

Had been cast down; 

When he had served, with patriot zeal, 

Beneath the banner of Castile, 

His sovereign's crown ; 

And done such deeds of valour strong, 
That neither history nor song 



COPLAS DE MANEIQUE. 69 

Can count them all; 
Then, on Ocaria's castled rock, 
Death at his portal came to knock, 
With sudden call, — 

Saying, " Good Cavalier, prepare 
To leave this world of toil and care 
"With joyful mien; 

Let thy strong heart of steel this day 
Put on its armour for the fray, — 
The closing scene. 

u Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, 
So prodigal of health and life, 
For earthly fame, 
Let virtue nerve thy heart again; 
Loud on the last stern battle-plain 
They call thy name. 

" Think not the struggle that draws near 
Too terrible for man, — nor fear 
To meet the foe ; 
Nor let thy noble spirit grieve 
Its life of glorious fame to leave 
On earth below. 

" A life of honour and of worth 
Has no eternity on earth, — 
'Tis but a name; 
And yet its glory far exceeds 
That base and sensual life, which leads 
To want and shame. 

* The eternal life, beyond the sky, 
Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high 
And proud estate; 

The soul in dalliance laid, — the spirit 
Corrupt with sin, — shall not inherit 
A joy so great. 

" But the good monk, in cloistered cell, 
Shall gain it by his book and bell, 
His prayers and tears; 
And the brave knight, whose arm endures 
Fierce battle, and against the Moors 
His standard rears. 

" And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured 
The life-blood of the Pagan horde 



TO TRANSLATIONS. 

O'er all the land; 

In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, 
The guerdon of thine earthly strength 
And dauntless hand. 

" Cheered onward by this promise sure, 
Strong in the faith entire and pure 
Thou dost profess, 
Depart, — thy hope is certainty, — 
The third — the better life on high 
Shalt thou possess." 

'0 Death! no more, no more delay; 
My spirit longs to flee away, 
And be at rest; 

The will of Heaven my will shall be, — 
I bow to the divine decree, 
To God's behest. 

Ci My soul is ready to depart, 
No thought rebels, the obedient heart 
Breathes forth no sigh; 
The wish on earth to linger still 
Were vain, when 'tis God's sovereign will 
That we shall die. 

u Thou, that for our sins did st take 
A human form, and humbly make 
Thy home on earth; 
Thou, that to thy divinity 
A human nature didst ally 
By mortal birth, 

w And in that form didst suffer here 
Torment, and agony, and fear, 
So patiently; 

By thy redeeming grace alone, 
And not for merits of my own, 
Oh, pardon me ! " 

As thus the dying warrior prayed, 
Without one gathering mir* or shade 
Upon his mind; 
Encircled by his family, 
Watched by Affection's gentle eye 
So soft and kind; 

His soul to Him who gave it rose ; 
God lead it to its long repose, 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 71 

Its glorious rest ! 

And, though the warrior's sun has set. 
Its light shall linger round us yet, 
Bright, radiant, blest.* 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 

Shepherd ! that with thine amorous, sylvan song 

Hast broken the slumber which encompassed me, — 

That mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree, 

On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long ! 

Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains; 

For. thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be ; 

I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 

Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. 

Hear, Shepherd ! — thou who for thy flock art dying. 

Oh, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 

* This poem of Manrique is a great favourite in Spain. No less than four 
poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it have been published, no one 
of which, however, possesses great poetic merit. That of the Carthusian 
monk, Rodrigo de Valdepenas, is the best. It is known as the GlosadelCaHujo. 
There is also a prose Commentary by Luis de Aranda. 

The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author's pocket after 
his death on .the field of battle : 

" O World! so few the years we live, 
Would that the life which thou dost give 
Were life indeed ! 
Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast, 
Our happiest hour is when at last 
The soul is freed, 

" Our days are covered o'er with grief. 
And sorrows neither few nor brief 
Veil all in gloom ; 
Left desolate of real good, 
Within this cheerless solitude 
No pleasures bloom. 

M Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair; 
Midway so many toils appear, 
That he who lingers longest hero 
Knows most of care. 

" Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 
By the hot sweat of toil alone, 
And weary hearts ; 
Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 
But with a lingering step and slow 
Its form departs." 



72 TBANSLATIONS. 

Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 

Oh, wait ! — to thee my weary soul is crying, — 

Wait for me ! — Yet why ask it, when I see, 

With feet nailed to the cross, thou 'rt waiting still for me ; 



TO-MORROW. 

PROM THE SPANISH OP LOPE DE VEGA. 

Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing care, 

Thou didst seek after me, — that thou didst wait, 

Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, 

And pass the gloomy nights of winter there ? 

strange delusion ! — that I did not greet 

Thy blest approach ; and oh, to Heaven how lost, 

If my ungratitude's unkindly frost 

Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. 

How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 

" Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see 

How he persists to knock and wait for thee ! " 

And, oh ! how often to that voice of sorrow, 

" To-morrow we will open," I replied, 

And when the morrow came I answered still, " To-morrow."' 



THE NATIVE LAND. 

PROM THE SPANISH OP PRANCISCO DE ALDANA. 

Clear fount of light ! my native land on high, 

Bright with a glory that shall never fade ! 

Mansion of truth ! without a veil or shade, 

Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. 

There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, 

Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath ; 

But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence 

With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death. 

Beloved country ! banished from thy shore, 

A stranger in this prison-house of clay, 

The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee ! 

Heavenward the bright perfections I adore 

Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, 

That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be. 



THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 



73 



THE IMAGE OF GOD. 

FROM THE SPANISH OP FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. 

O Lord ! that seest, from yon starry height, 

Centred in one, the future and the past, 

Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast 

The world obscures in me what once was bright ! 

Eternal Sun ! the warmth which thou hast given, 

To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays; 

Yet, in the hoary winter of my days, 

For ever green shall be my trust in Heaven. 

Celestial King ! oh, let thy presence pass 

Before my spirit, and an image fair 

Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, 

As the reflected image in a glass 

Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, 

And owes its being to the gazer's eye. 



THE BROOK. 



FROM THE SPANISH. 



Laugh of the mountain ! — lyre of bird and tree : 

Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn ! 

The soul of April, unto whom are born 

The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee ! 

Although, where'er thy devious current strays, 

The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, 

To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems 

Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze. 

How without guile thy bosom, all transparent 

As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye 

Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count ! 

How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current ! 

sweet simplicity of days gone by ! 

Thou shunn'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount ! 



THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II. 

And now, behold ! as at the approach of morning 
Through the gross vapours, Mars grows fiery red 
Down in the west upon the ocean floor, 



74 TRANSITIONS. 

Appeared to me, — may I again behold it! — 
A light along the sea, so swiftly coming, 
Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled. 

And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little 
Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor. 
Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. 

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared 

I knew not what of white, and underneath, 

Little by little, there came forth another. 

My master yet had uttered not a word, 
While the first brightness into wings unfolded ; 
But, when he clearly recognised the pilot, 

He cried aloud; " Quick, quick, and bow the knee! 
Behold the Angel of God ! fold up thy hands ! 
Henceforward shalt thou see such officers ! 

Ci See, how he scorns all human arguments, 
So that no oar he wants, nor other sail, 
Than his own wings, between so distant shores ! 

" See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven, 
Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, 
That do not moult themselves like mortal hair ! " 

And then, as nearer and more near us came 
The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared, 
So that the eye could not sustain his presence. 

But down I cast it ; and he came to shore 
With a small vessel, gliding swift and light, 
So that the water swallowed nought thereof. 

Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot ! 
Beatitude seemed written in his face ! 
And more than a hundred spirits sat within. 

* In exitu Israel out of Egypt \ " 
Thus sang they all together in one voice, 
With whatso in that Psalm is after written. 

Then made he sign of holy rood upon them, 
Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, 
And he departed swiftly as he came. 



THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE, 75 

THE TEKRESTKIAL PARADISE. 

FKOH DANTE. PUKGATORIO, XXVIII. 

Longing already to search in and round 
The heavenly forest, dense and living-green, 
Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day, 

Withouten more delay I left the bank, 

Crossing the level country slowly, slowly, 

Over the soil that everywhere breathed fragrance. 

A gently-breathing air, that no mutation 
Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead, 
No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze, 

Whereat the tremulous branches readily 

Did all of them bow downward towards that side 

Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain; 

Yet not from their upright direction bent 
So that the little birds upon their tops 
Should cease the practice of their tuneful art j 

But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime 
Singing received they in the midst of foliage 
That made monotonous burden to their rhymes, 

Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells, 
Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi, 
WheD JEolus unlooses the Sirocco. 

Already my slow steps had led me on 

Into the ancient wood so far, that I 

Could see no more the place where I had entered. 

And lo ! my farther course cut off a river, 

Which, towards the left hand, with its little waves, 

Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang. 

All waters that on earth most limpid are, 
' Would seem to have within themselves some mixture, 
Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal, 

Although it moves on with a brown, brown current, 
Under the shade perpetual, that never 
Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. 



76 TRANSLATIONS. 

BEATRICE. 

PROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX., XXXI. 

Even as the Blessed, in the new covenant, 

Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave* 

Wearing again the garments of the flesh, 

So, upon that celestial chariot, 

A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis, 

Ministers and messengers of life eternal. 

They all were saying: " JBenedictus qui venis, 7 " 
And scattering flowers above and round about, 
" Manibus o date Mia plenis." 

I once beheld, at the approach of day, 

The orient sky all stained with roseate hues, 

And the other heaven with light serene adorned, 

And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed, 
So that, by temperate influence of vapours, 
The eye sustained his aspect for long while; 

Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers, 

Which from those hands angelic were thrown up^ 

And down descended inside and without, 

With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil, 
Appeared a lady, under a green mantle, 
Vested in colours of the living flame. 



Even as the snow, among the living rafters 

Upon the back of Italy, congeals, 

Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds, 

And then, dissolving, filters through itself, 
Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes, 
Like as a taper melts before a fire; 

Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, 
Before the song of those who chime for ever 
After the chiming of the eternal spheres; 

But, when I heard in those sweet melodies 

Compassion for me, more than had they said, 

" wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?" 



SPUING. 



The ice, that wa3 about ray heart congealed, 
To air and water changed, and, in my anguish, 
Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast. 



Confusion and dismay, together mingled, 
Forced such a feeble " Yes ! " out of my mouth, 
To understand it one had need of sight. 

Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 'tis discharged, 
Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow, 
And with less force the arrow hits the mark ; 

So I gave way under this heavy burden, 

Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs, 

And the voice, fainting, nagged upon its passage. 



SPRING. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES D'ORLEANS, XV. CENTURY. 

Gentle Spring ! — in simshine clad, 

Well dost thou thy power display ! 
For Winter maketh the light heart sad, 

And thou — thou makest the sad heart gay. 
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, 
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the raiu 
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, 

"When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old, 

Their beards of icicles and snow ; 
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, 

We must cower over the embers 1oyv t ; 
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather. 
Mope like birds that are changing feather. 
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, 

When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky 

Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud ; 
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh ; 

Thou tearest away the mournf ul shroud, 
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly, 
Who has toiled for nought both late and early, 
Is banished afar by the new-born year, 
When thy merry step draws near. 



78 TRANSLATIONS. 

THE CHILD ASLEEP. 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's face, 
Sleep on the bosom, that thy lips have pressed ! 

Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. 

Upon that tender eye, my little friend, 

Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me ! 

I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend; — 
'Tis sweet to watch for thee, — alone for thee ! 

His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his brow ; 

His eye is closed ; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. 
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, 

"Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm ? 

Awake, my boy ! — I tremble with affright ! 

Awake, and chase this fatal thought ! — Unclose 
Thine eye but for one moment on the light ! 

Even at the price of thine, give me repose ! 

Sweet error ! — he but slept, — I breathe again ; — 
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile ! 

Oh ! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, 
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ? 



THE GRAVE. 

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 

For thee was a house built 
Ere thou wast born, 
For thee was a mould meant 
Ere thou of mother earnest. 
But it is not made ready, % 
Nor its depth measured, 
Nor is it seen 
How long it shall be. 
Now I bring thee 
Where thou shalt be ; 
Now I shall measure thee, 
And the mould afterwards. 

Thy house is not 
Highly timbered, 



KING CHRISTIAN. 

It is unhigh and low ; 
When thou art therein, 
The heel-ways are low, 
The side-ways unhigh. 
The roof is built 
Thy breast full nigh. 
So thou shalt in mould 
Dwell full cold, 
Dimly and dark. 

Doorless is that house. 
And dark it is within ; 
There thou art fast detained. 
And Death hath the key. 
Loathsome is that earth-house^ 
A.nd grim within to dwell. 
There thou shalt dwell, 
And worms shall divide theo. 

Thus thou art laid, 
And leavest thy friends ; 
Thou hast no friend, 
"Who will come to thee, 
Who will ever see 
How that house pleaseth thso, 
Who will ever open 
The door for thee, 
And descend after thee, 
For soon thou art loathsome 
And hateful to see. 



7.9 



KING CHRISTIAN. 

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK. 
FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNEs'EVALD. 

King Christian stood by the lofty mast- 
In mist and smoke ; 

His sword was hammering so fast, 

Through Gothic helm and brain it passed ; 

Then sank each hostile hulk and mast 
In mist and smoke. 

"■ Fly ! " shouted they, " fly, he who can ! 

Who braves of Denmark's Christian 
The stroke ? M 



80 TRANSLATIONS. 

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar, 

Now is the hour ! 
He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, 
And smote upon the foe full sore, 
And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar, 

" Now is the hour ! 
"Fly!" shouted they, "for shelter, fly! 
Of Denmark's Juel who can defy 

The power?" 

North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
Then champions to thine arms were sent; 
Terror and Death glared where he went; 
From the waves was heard a wail, that rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol', 
Let each to Heaven commend his soul, 

And fly! 

Path of the Dane to fame and might ! 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, 
Goes to meet danger with despite, 
Proudly as thou the tempest's might, 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
And amid pleasures and alarms, 
And war and victory, be thine arms 

My grave ! * 



THE HAPPIEST LAND. 

FRAGMENT OF A MODERN BALLAD. 
FROM THE GERMAN. 

There sat one day in quiet, 

By an alehouse on the Rhine, 
Four hale and hearty fellows, 

And drank the precious wine. 

The landlord's daughter filled their cups, 

Around the rustic board; 
Then sat they all so calm and still, 

And spake not one rude word. 

* Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral, and Peder Wessel. a Vice- 
Admiral, who for his great prowess received the popular title of Tordenskiold, 
or Thunder-shield. In childhood he was a tailor's apprentice, and rose to his 
high rank before the age of twenty-eight, when he was killed in a duel. 



THE WAVE. 81 

But, when the maid departed, 

A Swabian raised his hand, 
And cried, ail hot and flushed with wine, 

" Long live the Swabian land ! 

" The greatest kingdom upon earth 

Cannot with that compare; 
"With all the stout and hardy men 

And the nut-brown maidens there/' 

" Ha ! " cried a Saxon, laughing, — 

And dashed his beard with wine; 
" I had rather live in Lapland, 

Than that Swabian land of thine ! 

" The goodliest land on all this earth, 

It is the Saxon land ! 
There have I as many maidens 

As fingers on this hand ! " 

" Hold your tongues ! both Swabian and Saxon ! " 

A bold Bohemian cries ; 
" If there 's a heaven upon this earth, 

In Bohemia it lies. 

" There the tailor blows the flute, 

And the cobbler blows the horn, 
And the miner blows the bugle 

Over mountain gorge and bourn." 



And then the landlord's daughter 
Up to heaven raised her hand, 

And said, " Ye may no more contend,- 
There lies the happiest land." 



THE WAVE. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE. 

" Whither, thou turbid wave ? 
Whither, with so much haste, 
As if a thief wert thou ? " 

" I am the Wave of Life, 
Stained with my margin's dust : 
From the struggle and the strife 
Of the narrow stream I fly 
To the Sea's immensity, 
To wash from me the slime 
Of the muddy banks of Time." 



82 TRANSLATIONS. 

THE DEAD. 

¥ROM THE GERMAN OF KXOPSTOCK. 

How they so softly rest, 
All, all the holy dead, 
Unto whose dwelling-place 
Now doth my soul draw near ! 
How they so softly rest, 
All in their silent graves, 
Deep to corruption 
Slowly down-sinking ! 

And they no longer weep 
Here, where complaint is still I 
And they no longer feel, 
Here, where all gladness flies ! 
And, by the cypresses 
Softly o'ershadowed, 
Until the Angel 
Calls them, they slumber ! 



THE BIRD AND THE SHIP 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER, 

fi The rwers rush into the sea, 
By castle and town they go ; 
The winds behind them merrily 
Their noisy trumpets blow. 

" The clouds are passing far and high, 
We little birds in them play; 
And everything, that can sing and fly., 
Goes with us, and far away. 

" I greet thee, bonny boat ! Whither, or whence 
With thy fluttering golden band?" 

u I greet thee, little bird ! To the wide sea 
I haste from the narrow land. 

u Full and swollen is every sail; 
I see no longer a hill, 
I have trusted all to the sounding gale, 
And it will not let me stand still. 

" And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? 

Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, 
For full to sinking is my house 
With merry companions all." — 



WHITHER? 83 

" I need not and seek not company, 
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone; 
For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, 
Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. 

" High over the sails, high over the mast, 
Who shall gainsay these joys ? 
When thy merry companions are still, at last, 
Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice. 

" Who neither may rest, nor listen may, 
God bless them every one ! 
I dart away, in the bright blue day, 
And the golden fields of the sun. 

" Thus do I sing my weary song, 
Wherever the four winds blow; 
And this same song, my whole life long, 
Neither Poet nor Printer may know." 



WHITHER? 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLES. 

I heard a brooklet gushing 

From its rocky fountain near. 
Down into the valley rushing, 

So fresh and wondrous clear. 

I know not what came o'er me, 

Nor who the counsel gave; 
But I must hasten downward, 

All with my pilgrim-stave; 

Downward, and ever farther, 

And ever the brook beside; 
And ever fresher murmured, 

And ever clearer, the tide. 

Is this the way I was going? 

Whither, O brooklet, say ! 
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, 

Murmured my senses away. 

What do I say of a murmur? 

That can no murmur be; 
*Tis the water-nymphs, that are singing 

Their roundelays under me. 

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, 

And wander merrily near; 
The wheels of a mill are going 

In every brooklet clear., 



84 TRANSLATIONS, 

BEWARE. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

I know a maiden fair to see, 

Take care ! 
She can both false and friendly be, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is s f ooling thee ! 

She has two eyes, so soft and brown, 

Take care ! 
She gives a side-glance and looks down, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

And she has hair of a golden hue, 

Take care ! 
And what she says, it is not true, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She has a bosom as white as snow, 

Take care ! 
She knows how much it is best to show, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She gives thee a garland woven fair, 

Take care ! 
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 



SONG OF THE BELL. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily, 
"When the bridal party 

To the church doth hie ! 
Bell ! thou soundest solemnly, 
"When, on Sabbath morning, 

Fields deserted lie I 



THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 85 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily; 
Tellest thou at evening, 

Bed-time draweth nigh ! 
Bell! thou soundest mournfully; 
Tellest thou the bitter 

Parting hath gone by ! 

Say! how canst thou mourn? 
How canst thou rejoice? 

Thou arfcbut metal dull ! 
And yet all our sorrowings, 
And all our rejoicings, 

Thou dost feel them all ! 

God hath wonders many, 
Which we cannot fathom, 

Placed within thy form ! 
"When the heart is sinking, 
Thou alone canst raise it, 

Trembling in the storm ! 



THE CASTLE BY THE SEA 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

" Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 
That Castle by the Sea? 
Golden and red above it 
The clouds float gorgeously. 

"And fain it would stoop downward 
To the mirrored wave below; 
And fain it would soar upward 
In the evenings crimson glow." 

a Well have I seen that castle, 
That Castle by the Sea, 
And the moon above it standing, 
And the mist rise solemnly." 

e: The winds and the waves of ocean, 
Had they a merry chime? 
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, 
The harp and the minstrel's rhyme V* 

u The winds and the waves of ocean, 
They rested quietly, 
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, 
And tears came to mine eye." 



86 TRANSLATIONS. 

4 And sawest thou on the turrets 
The King and his royal bride ? 
And the wave of their crimson mantles? 
And the golden crown of pride? 

* f Led they not forth, in rapture, 
A beauteous maiden there? 
Resplendent as the morning sun, 
Beaming with golden hair?" 

ft Well saw I the ancient parents, 
Without the crown of pride ; 
They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, 
No maiden was by their side ! " 



THE BLACK KNIGHT. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

'Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 
When woods and fields put off all sadness. 

Thus began the King and spake; 
" So from the halls 
Of ancient Hofburg's walls, 

A luxuriant Spring shall break" 

Drums and trumpets echo loudly, 
Wave the crimson banners proudly. 

From balcony the King looked on; 
In the play of spears, 
Fell all the Cavaliers, 

Before the monarch's stalwart son. 

To the barrier of the fight 
Rode at last a sable Knight. 

" Sir Knight ! your name and scutcheon, say ! ' 
" Should I speak it here, 
Ye would stand aghast with fear; 

I am a Prince of mighty sway i " 

When he rode into the lists, 

The arch of heaven grew black with mists, 

And the Castle 'gan to rock. 
At the first blow, 
Fell the youth from saddle-bow, 

Hardly rises from the shock. 

Pipe and viol call the dances, 
Torch-light through the high halls glances; 
Waves a mighty shadow in; 



SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 87 

With manner bland 
Doth ask the maiden's hand, 
Doth with her the dance begin ; 

Danced in sable iron sark, 
Danced a measure weird and dark, 

Coldly clasped her limbs around. 
From breast and hair 
Down fall from her the fair 

Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 

To the sumptuous banquet came 
Every Knight and every Dame. 

'Twixt son and daughter all distraught; 
With mournful mind 
The ancient King reclined, 

Gazed at them in silent thought. 

Pale the children both did look, 
But the guest a beaker took; 

" Golden wine will make you whole ! '' 
The children drank, 
Gave many a courteous thank; 

" Oh, that draught was very cool ! " 

Each the Father's breast embraces, 
Son and daughter; and their faces 

Colourless grow utterly. 
Whichever way 
Looks the fear-struck father grey, 

He beholds his children die. 

" Woe ! the blessed children both 
Takest thou in the joy of youth; 

Take me too, the joyless father! " 
Spake the grim Guest, 
From his hollow, cavernous breast, 

" Roses in the Spring I gather!" 



SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS. . 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Ah ! who shall lead us thither? 

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 

And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 

Who leads us with a gentle hand 

Thither, oh, thither, 

Into the Silent Land? 



88 TRANSLATIONS. 

Into the Silent Land! 

To you, ye boundless regions 

Of all perfection ! Tender morning visions 

Of beauteous souls ! The Future's pledge and band ! 

Who in Life's battle firm doth stand, 

Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Land! Land! 

For all the broken-hearted 

The mildest herald by our fate allotted, 

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 

To lead us with a gentle hand 

Into the land of the great Departed, 

Into the Silent Land ! 



L'ENVOl. 

Ye voices, that arose 

After the evening's close, 

And whispered to my restless heart repose I 

Go, breathe it in the ear 

Of all who doubt and fear, 

And say to them, " Be of good cheer 1 " 



Ye sounds, so low and calm, 
That in the groves of balm 
Seemed to me like an angel's psalm ! 

Go, mingle yet once more 

With the perpetual roar 

Of the pine-forest, dark and hoar ! 



Tongues of the dead, not lost, 
But speaking from death's frost, 
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost ! 

Glimmer, as funeral lamps, 
Amid the chills and damps 
Of the vast plain where Death encamps ! 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. 

[The following Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the sea-shore at 
Newport. A year or two previous, a skeleton had been dug up at Fall 
River, clad in broken and corroded armour ; and the idea occurred to me 
of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally known 
hitherto as the Old Wind-Mill, though now claimed by the Danes as a wcrK 
of their early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in the M&moires de la SociGte 
Royale des Antiquaires du Nord, for 1838-1839, says : — • 

"There is no mistaking in this instance the style in which the more 
ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, the style which be- 
longs to the Roman or Ante-Gothic architecture, and which, especially after 
the time of Charlemagne, diffused itself from Italy over the whole of 
the West and North of Europe, where it continued to predominate until 
the close of the 12th century; that style, which some authors have, from 
one of its most striking characteristics, called the round-arch style, the 
same which in England is denominated Saxon and sometimes Norman 
architecture. 

" On the ancient structure in Newport there are no ornaments remaining, 
which might possibly have served to guide us in assigning the probable 
date of its erection. That no vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch, 
nor any approximation to it, is indicative of an earlier rather than of a later 
period. From such characteristics as remain, however, we can scarcely 
form any other inference than one, in which I am persuaded that all, who 
are familiar with Old-Northern architecture, will concur, that this building 

WAS ERECTED AT A PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE 12TH CENTURY. 

This remark applies, of course, to the original building only, and not to the 
alterations that it subsequently received ; for there are several such altera- 
tions in the upper part of the building which cannot be mistaken, and which 
were most likely occasioned by its being adapted in modern times to various 
■uses, for example, as the substructure of a wind-mill, and latterly as a hay 
magazine. To the same times may be referred the windows, the fire-place, 
and the apertures made above the columns. That this building could not 
have been erected for a wind-miil, is what an architect will easily discern." 
I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is sufficiently well estab- 
lished for the purpose of a ballad; though doubtless many an honest citizen 
of Newport, who has passed his days within sight of the Round Tower, will 
be ready to exclaim with Sancho: " God bless me ! did I not warn you to 
have a care of what you were doing, for that it was nothing but a wind- 
mill ; and nobody could mistake it, but one who had the like in his 
head,"] 

" Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armour drest, 
Comest to daunt me ! 



90 



BALLADS AND OTHER TOEMS. 

Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 

Why dost thou haunt me ? " 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise, 
As when the Northern skiea 

Gleam in December; 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart's chamber. 

6 1 was a Viking old ! 
My deeds, though manifold, 
No Skald in song has told, 
No Saga taught thee ! 
Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse, 
Else dread a dead man's curse ! 
For this I sought thee. 

" Far in the Northern Land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, with my childish hand, 

Tamed the ger-f alcon ; 
And, with my skates fast-bound, 
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. 

" Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the grisly bear, 
While from my path the hare 

Fled like a shadow ; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf 's bark, 
Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 

(i But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair's crew, 
O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led ; 
Many the souls that sped, 
Many the hearts that bled, 
By our stern orders. 



LofC. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR, 

" Many a wassail bout 
Wore the long Winter out ; 
Often our midnight shout 

Set the cocks crowing,, 
As we the Berserk's tale 
Measured in cups of ale, 
Draining the oaken pail, 

Filled to o'ernowing. 

*' Once, as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 
Soft eyes did gaze on me, 

Burning yet tender ; 
And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine, 
On that dark heart of mine 

Fell their soft splendour. 

*• I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid, 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast, 
Like birds within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 

u Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall, 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 

Chaunting his glory ; 
When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughter's hand, 
Mute did the minstrels stand 

To hear my story. 

( ' While the brown ale he quaffed, 
Loud then the champion laugheci^ 
And as the wind-gusts waft 
The sea-foam brightly, 
So the loud laugh of scorn, 
Out of those lips unshorn, 
From the deep drinking-horn 
Blew the foam lightly. 

<c She was a Prince's child, 
I but a Viking wild, 
And though she blushed and smiled, 
I was discarded ! 



91 



92 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS* 

Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
"Why did they leave that night 
Her nest unguarded? 

u Scarce had I put to sea, 
Bearing the maid with me, — ■ 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen !-— 
When on the white sea-strand, 
Waving his armed hand, 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 

u Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet we were gaining fast, 

When the wind failed us, 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So that our foe we saw 

Laugh as he hailed us. 

'•' And as to catch the gale 
Bound veered the flapping sail, 
Death ! was the helmsman's hail, 

Death without quarter! 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel; 
Down her black hulk did reel 
Through the black water ! 

Ci As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant, 
Seeking some rocky haunt, 

With his prey laden, 
So toward the open main, 
Beating to sea again, 
Through the wild hurricane, 

Bore I the maiden. 

" Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o'er. 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 

Stretching to lee-ward; 
There for my lady's bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 
Which, to this very hour, 

Stands looking sea-ward. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 93 

66 There lived we many years; 
Time dried the maiden's tears; 
She had forgot her fears, 

She was a mother ; 
Death closed her mild blue eye?, 
Under that tower she lies; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 

On such another ! 

"Still grew my bosom then, 
Still as a stagnant fen ! 
Hateful to me were men, 

The sun-light hateful ! 
In the vast forest here, 
Clad in my warlike gear, 
Fell I upon my spear, 

Oh, death was grateful i 

" Thus, seamed with many scars, 
Bursting these prison bars, 
Up to its native stars 

My soul ascended ! 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 
Skoal! to the Northland! Skoal!"* 
— Thus the tale ended 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

la? was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the lairy-flax, 

Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 
And her bosom white as the hawthorn bud?. 

That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now West, now South. 

* In Scandinavia this is tho customary salutation when drinking a healtb . 
I have slightly changed the orthography of the word, in order to preserve the 
correct pronunciation. 



94 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 

Then up and spake an old Sailor, 
Had sailed the Spanish Main, 
•' I pray thee, put into yonder port, 
For I fear a hurricane. 

•'* Last night the moon had a golden ring, 
And to-night no moon we see ! " 
The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the North-east; 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, 

Then leaped a cable's length. 

" Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter, 
And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale, 
That ever wind did blow/* 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat, 

Against the stinging blast; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

u father ! I hear the church-bells ring, 

Oh, say, what may it be ? " 
" 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast 1 " — 

And he steered for the open sea. 

u father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

Oh, say, what may it be ? " 
" Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea !" 

" father, I see a gleaming light, 
Oh, say, what may it be?" 
But the father answered never a word, 
A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 
With his face turned to the skies, 

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 




At dav break, on the bleak sea beach, 
A fisherman stood atfbast, 

To see the form til a maide i unr 

Lash'd close to a dniting mast. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That saved she might be; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave 

On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet and snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 



95 



And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf, 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side, 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the masts, went by the board; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At day-break, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast. 

The salt tears in her eyes; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ! 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe 1 



9f> BALLADS AND OTHEE POEMS. 

THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

[The tradition upon which this ballad is founded, and the "shards of the Luck 
of Edenhall," still exist in England. The goblet is in the possession of Sii 
Christopher Musgrave, Bart, of Eden Hall, Cumberland, and is not so 
entirely shattered as the ballad leaves it.] 

Of Edenhall, the youthful Lord 
Bids sound the festal trumpet's call; 
He rises at the banquet board, 
And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, 
'•'Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall! " 

The butler hears the words with pain, 
The house's oldest seneschal, 
Takes slow from its silken cloth again 
The drinking -glass of crystal tall; 
They call it The Luck of Edenhall. 

Then said the Lord, " This glass to praise, 

Fill with red wine from Portugal ! 

The gray -beard with trembling hand obeys ; 

A purple light shines over all, 

It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 

Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light, 
" This glass of flashing crystal tall 
Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite ; 
She wrote in it, // this glass doth fall, 
Farewell then, Luck of Edenhall / 

" 'Twas right a goblet the Fate should be 
Of the joyous race of Edenhall! 
Deep draughts drink we right willingly; 
And willingly ring, with merry call, 
Kling ! klang ! to the Luck of Edenhall ! fi 

First rings it deep, and full, and mild, 
Like to the song of a nightingale ; 
Then like the roar of a torrent wild ; 
Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall. 
The glorious Luck of Edenhall. 

a For its keeper takes a race of might, 
The fragile goblet of crystal tall; 
It has lasted longer than is right; 
Kling ! klang ! — with a harder blow than all 
Will I try the Luck of Edenhall ! " 



THE ELECTED KJSTGilT. 97 

As the goblet ringing flies apart, 
Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall ; 
And through the rift the wild names start ; 
The guests in dust are scattered all ; 
With the breaking Luck of Edenhall ! 

In storms the foe, with fire and sword, 
He in the night had scaled the wall, 
Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord. 
But holds in his hand the crystal tall, 
The shattered Luck of Edenhall. 

On the morrow the butler gropes alone. 
The gray-beard in the desert hall, 
He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton, 
He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall 
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. 

" The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside, 
Down must the stately columns fall ; 
Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride; 
In atoms shall fall this earthly ball 
One day like the Luck of Edenhall ! " 



THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 

FROM THE DANISH. 

[The following strange and somewhat mystical ballad is from Xyerup and 
Rahbek's Danske Viser of the Middle Ages. It seems to refer to the first 
preaching of Christianity in the North, and to the institution of Knight- 
Errantry. The three maidens I suppose to be Faith, Hope, and Charity. 
The irregularities of the original have been carefully preserved in the trans- 
lation.] 

Sin Oltjf he rideth over the plain, 

Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide, 

But never, ah never, can meet with the man 
A tilt with him dare ride. 

He saw under the hill-side 

A. Knight full well equipped; 
His steed was black, his helm was barred ; 

He was riding at full speed. 

He wore upon his spurs 

Twelve little golden birds; 
Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, 

And there pat all the birds and sang. 



08 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 

He wore upon his mail 

Twelve little golden wheels ; 
Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, 

And round and round the wheels they flew. 

He wore before his breast 

A lance that was poised in rest; 

And it was sharper than diamond-stone, 
It made Sir Oluf *s heart to groan. 

He wore upon his helm 

A wreath of ruddy gold; 
And that gave him the Maidens Three, 

The youngest was fair to behold. 

Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon 
If he were come from heaven down; 
a Art thou Christ of heaven ? " quoth he, 
" So will I yield me unto thee." 

ff I am not Christ the great, 

Thou shalt not yield thee yet; 
I am an unknown Knight, 

Three modest Maidens have me bedighl " 

r Art thou a Knight elected, 

And have three Maidens thee bedight? 
So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, 
For all the Maidens' honoui ! " 

The first tilt they together rode ; 

They put their steeds to the test; 
The second tilt they together rode, 

They proved their manhood best* 

The third tilt they together rode, 

Neither of them would yield; 
The fourth tilt they together rode, 

They both fell on the field. 

Now lie the Lords upon the plain, 
And their blood runs unto death; 

ITow sit the Maidens in the high tower, 
The youngest sorrows till death. 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD S STJFPE2, 99 

THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. . 

FROM THE SWEDISH OF BISHOP TEGUEB. 

Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. The church of the village 
"learning stood in the morning's sheen. On the spire of the belfry, 
Tipped with a vane of metal, the friendly flames of the Spring-sun 
"rlanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles aforetime, 
lear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her cap crowned with 

roses, 
Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the wind and the brooklet 
Murmured gladness and peace, God's peace ! with lips rosy- tinted 
Wlr nered the race of the flowers, and merry on balancing branches 
Bin were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the Highest. 
Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned like a leaf -woven arbour 
Stood its old-fashioned gate; and within upon each cross of iron 
Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the hands of affection. 
Even the dial, that stood on a hillock among the departed, 
'There full a hundred years had it stood,) was embellished with 

blossoms, ' 
Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the hamlet, 
Who on his birth-day is crowned by children and children's children. 
So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of iron 
Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the time and its changes 
While all around at his feet, an eternity slumbered in quiet. 
Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season 
When the young, their parents' hope, and the loved-ones of heaven. 
Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of their baptism. 
Therefore each nook and corner was swept and cleaned, and the dust 

was 
Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the oil-painted benches. 
There stood the church like a garden ; the Feast of the Leafy Pavilions'" 
Saw we in living presentment. From noble arms on the church wal! 
Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher's pulpit of oak-wood 
Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod before Aaron. 
Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and the dove, washed 

with silver, 
Under its canopy fastened, had on it a necklace of wind-flowers. 
But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece painted by H6rberg,*f 
Crept a garland gigantic; and bright-curling tresses of angels 
Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, from out of the shadowy leaf -work. 
Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polished, blinked from the ceiling. 
And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in the sockets. 

* The Feast of the Tabernacles; in Swedish, Lofhyddjldgtiden, the Leaf- 
huts'-high-tide. 

t The peasant-paintei of Sweden. He is known chiefly by his altar-pieces 
m tl e village churches. 



100 EAXLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 

Loud rang the bells already; the thronging crowd was assembled 
Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy preaching. 
Hark ! then roll forth at once the mighty tones from the organ, 
Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible spirits. 
Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast off from him his mantle, 
Even so cast off the soul its garments of earth ; and with one voice 
Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem immortal 
Of the sublime Wallin,* of David's harp in the North-land, 
Tuned to the choral of Luther ; the song on its powerful pinions 
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven, 
And every face did shine like the Holy One's face upon Tabor. 
Lo ! there entered then into the church the Reverend Teacher. 
Father he hight and he was in the parish ; a christianly plainness 
Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of seventy winters. 
Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the heralding angel 
"Walked he among the crowds, but still a contemplative grandeur 
Lay on his f orehea,d, as clear as on moss-covered grave-stone a sun- 
beam. 
As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that faintly 
Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the day of creation,) 
Th' Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines Saint John when in Patmos, 
Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so seemed then the old man ; 
Such was the glance of his eye, and such were his tresses of silver. 
All the congregation arose in the pews that were numbered. 
But with a cordial look, to the right and the left hand, the old man, 
Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the innermost chancel. 

Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Christian service, 
Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent discourse from the old man. 
Many a moving word and warning, that out of the heart came, 
Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on those in the desert. 
Afterwards, when all was finished, the Teacher reentered the chancal, 
Followed therein by the young. On the right hand the boys had 

their places, 
Delicate figures, with close-curling hair and cheeks rosy-blooming. . 
But on the left hand of these there stood the tremulous lilies, 
Tinged with the blushing light of the morning, the diffident 

maidens, — 
Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast down on the 

pavement. 
Now came, with question and answer, the catechism. In the be- 
ginning 
Answered the children with troubled and faltering voice, but the 

old man's 
Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and the doctrines eternal 
Mowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear from lips unpolluted. 

* A distinguished pulpit-orator and poet. He is particularly remarkable &jt 
the "beauty and sublimity of his psalms. 



THE CKILDEEN 05 THE LOED'S SUPPER. 101 

Whene'er the answer was closed, and as oft as they named the Re- 
deemer, 
Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all courtesied. 
Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light there among them, 
And to the children explained he the holy, the highest, in few words, 
Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity alwaj^s is simple, 
Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its meaning. 
Even as the green-growing bud is unfolded when Spring-tide ap- 



Leaf by leaf is developed, and, warmed by the radiant sunshine, 
Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the perfected blossom 
Opens its odoro is chalice, and rocks with its crown in the breezes; 
So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salvation, 
Line by line fiom the soul of childhood. The fathers and mothers 
Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at each well-worded answer. 

Now went the old man up to the altar; — and straightway trans- 
figured 
(So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate Teacher. 
Like the Lord's Prophet sublime, and awful as Death and as Judgment, 
Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul-searcher, earthward de- 
scending.- 
Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts, that to him were transparent, 
Shot he; his voice was deep, was low, like the thunder afar off. 
So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he spake and he questioned 

" This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith the Apostles delivered, 
This is moreover the faith whereunto I baptized you, while still ye 
Lay on your mothers' breasts, and nearer the portals of heaven. 
Slumbering received you then the Holy Church in its bosom ; 
"Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in its radiant splendour 
Rains from the heaven downward; — to-day on the threshold of 

childhood 
Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make your election, 
For she knows nought of compulsion, and only conviction desireth. 
This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point of existence, 
Seed for the coming days ; without revocation departeth 
Now from your lips the confession. Bethink ye, before ye make 

answer 1 
Think not, oh, think not with guile to deceive the questioning 

Teacher. 
Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests upon falsehood. 
Enter not with a he on life's journey; the multitude hears you, 
Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon earth is and holy 
Standeth before your sight as a witness; the Judge everlasting 
Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in waiting beside him 
Grave your confession in letters of fire, upon tablets eternal. 
Thus then, — Believe ye in God, in the' Father who this world created? 
Him who redeemed it the Son, and the Spirit where both are united? 



102 BALLADS AND OTHJbJli POEMS. 

Will ye promise me here, (a holy promise !) to cherish 
God more than all things earthly, and every man as a brother! 
Will ye promise me here to confirm your faith by your living, 
Th' heavenly faith of affection ! to hope, to forgive, and to suffer, 
"Be what it may your condition, and walk before God in uprightness! 
Will ye promise me this before God and man?" — With a clear voice 
Answered the young men Yes ! and Yes ! with lips softly-breathing 
Answered the maidens eke. Tnen dissolved from the brow of the 

Teacher 
Clouds with the thunders therein, and he spake in accents more gentle, 
Soft as the evening's breath, as harps by Babylon's rivers. 

" Hail, then, hail to you all ! To the heirdom of heaven be ye 

welcome ! 
Children no more from this day, but by covenant brothers and sisters ! 
Yet, — for what reason not children ? Of su ch is the kingdom of heaven. 
Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in heaven one Father, 
Ruling them all as his household, — forgiving in turn and chastising, 
That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has taught us. 
Blessed are the pure before God ! Upon purity and upon virtue 
Resteth the Christian Faith ; she herself from on high is descended 
Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the sum of the doctrine 
Which the Divine One taught, and suffered and died on the cross for. 
Oh ! as ye wander this day from childhood's sacred asylum 
Downward and ever downward, and deeper in Age's chill valley, 
Oh ! how soon will ye come, — too soon ! — and long to turn backward 
Up fco its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, where Judgment 
Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad like a mother. 
Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart was forgiven, 
Life was a play, and your hands grasped after the roses of heaven! 
Seventy years have I lived already ; the Father eternal 
Gave me gladness and care; but the loveliest hours of existence, 
When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I have instantly known 

them, 
Known them all again; — they were my childhood's acquaintance. 
Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the. paths of existence, 
Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Innocence, bride of man's 

childhood. 
Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the world of the blessed, 
Beautiful, and in her hand a lily; on life's roaring billows 
Swings she in safety, she heedeth them not, in the ship she is sleeping 
Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men ; in the desert 
Angels descend and minister unto her; she herself knoweth 
Naught of her glorious attendance; but follows faithful and humble 
Follows so long as she may her friend; oh, do not reject her. 
For she cometh from God and she holdeth the keys of the heavens. 
Prayer is Innocence' friend; and willingly flieth incessant 
'Tvvixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven. 
Bon of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, the spirit 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 103 

Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like flames ever upward. 
Still he recalls with emotion his Father's manifold mansions, 
Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blossomed more freshly the 

flowers. 
Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with the winged angels, 
Then grows the earth too narrow, too close ; and homesick for heaven 
Longs the wanderer again; and the spirit's longings are worship; 
"Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and its tongue is entreaty. 
Ah ! when the infinite burden of life descendeth upon us, 
Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, in the graveyard, — 
Then it is good to pray unto God; for his sorrowing children 
Turns he ne'er from his door, but he heals and helps and consoles them. 
Yot is it better to pray wben all things are prosperous with us, 
Pray in fortunate days, for life's most beautiful Fortune 
Kneels down before the Eternal's throne ; and, with hands mterf olded, 
Praises thankful and moved the only Giver of blessings. 
Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that comes not from Heaven? 
What has mankind, forsooth, the poor! that it has not received? 
Therefore, fall in the dust and pray ! The seraphs adoring 
Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of Him who 
Hung his masonry pendant on naught, when the world he created. 
Earth declareth his might, and the firmament uttereth his glory. 
Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward from heaven, 
Downward like withered leaves; at the last stroke of midnight, mil- 
lenniums 
Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees them, but counts them 

as nothing. 
Who shall stand in his presence ? The wrath of the Judge is terrific, 
Casting the insolent down at a glance. When he speaks in his anger, 
Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap like the roe-buck. 
Yet, — why are ye afraid, ye children ? This awful Avenger, 
Ah ! is a merciful God ! God's voice was not in the earthquake, 
Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes. 
Love is the root of creation; God's essence; worlds without numbei 
Lie in his bosom like children; he made them for this purpose only. 
Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed forth his spirit 
Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its 
Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a flame out of heaven. 
Quench, oh, quench not that flame! It is the breath of your being 
Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father nor mother 
Loved you as G od has loved you : for 'twas that you may be happy 
Gave he his only Son. When he bowed down his head in the death- 
hour 
Solemnised Love its triumph; the sacrifice then was completed. 
Lo ! then was rent on a sudden the vail of the temple, dividing 
Earth and heaven apart; and the dead, from their sepulchres rising, 
Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of each other 
Th* answer, but dreamed of bef ore,to creation's enigma, — Atonement ! 
"Depths of Love are Atonement's depths, for Love is Atonement. 



104 BALLADS AND OTHEP POEMS. 

Therefore, child of mortality! love thou the merciful Father; 
Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, but affection; 
Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing; 
Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, and Love only. 
Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise tlry 

brethren; 
One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, is Love also. 
Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his forehead? 
Readest thou not in his face thine origin? Is he not sailing 
Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not guided 
By the same stars that guide thee ? Why shouldest thou hate then 

thy brother? 
Hateth he thee, forgive ! For 'tis sweet to stammer one letter 
Of the Eternal's language ; — on earth it is called Forgiveness ! 
Knowest thou Him who f o.Tgave, with the crown of thorns round his 

temples ? 
Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers? Say dost thou 

know him? 
Ah ! thou conf essest his name, so follow likewise his example. 
Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a vail over his failings, 
Guide the erring aright; for the good, the heavenly Shepherd 
Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its mother. 
This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that we know it. 
Love is the creature's welfare, with God ; but Love among mortals 
Is but an endless sigh ! He longs, and endures, and stands waiting, 
Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on his eyelids. 
Hope, — so is called upon earth his recompense, — Hope, the befriend- 
ing, 
Does what she can, for she points evermore up to heaven, and faithful 
Plunges her anchor's peak in the depths of the grave, and beneath it 
Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet play of shadows ! 
Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, 
Having naught else but Hope. Then praise we our Father in heaven, 
Him, who has given us more ; for to us has Hope been transfigured, 
Groping no longer in night ; she is Faith, she is loving assurance. 
Faith is enlightened Hope ; she is light, is the eye of affection, 
Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in marble. 
Faith is the sun of life; and her countenance shines like the Hebrew's, 
For she has looked upon God ; the heaven on its stable foundation 
Draws she with chains down to earth, and the New Jerusalem sinketh 
Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapours descending. 
There enraptured she winders, and looks at the figures majestic, 
Fears not the winged crowd, in the midst of them all is her home- 
stead. 
Therefore love and believe ; for works will follow spontaneous 
Even as day does the sun; the Right from the Good is an offspring, 
Love in a bodily shape ; and Christian works are no more than 
Animate Love and Faith, as towers are the animate spring-tide. 
Works do follow us all unto God ; there stand and bear witness 



THE CTTTLT>KEN OF THE LOED'S SUPPER. 105 

Not what they seemed — but what they were only. Blessed is he who 
Hears their oonfession secure; they are mute upon earth until 

death's hand 
Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does Death e'er alarm 

you? 
Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is he, and is only 
More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips that are fading, 
Takes he the soul and departs, and rocked in the arms of affection, 
Places the ransomed child, new born, 'fore the face of its Father, 
Sounds of his coming already I hear, — see dimly his pinions, 
Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon them ! I fear not 

before him. 
Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. On his bosom 
Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast ; and face to face standing 
Look I on God as he is, a sun unpolluted by vapours ; 
Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits majestic, 
Nobler, better than I ; they stand by the throne all transfigured, 
Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are singing an anthem, 
Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels. 
You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one day shall gather, 
Never forgets he the weary; — then welcome, ye loved ones, hereafter ! 
Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not the promise, 
Wander from holiness onward to holiness ; earth shall ye heed not ; 
Earth is but dust and heaven is light; I have pledged you to heaven. 
God of the Universe, hear me ! thou Fountain of Love everlasting, 
Hark to the voice of thy servant ! I send up my prayer to thy heaven ! 
Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit of all these, 
Whom thou hast given me here ! I have loved them all like a father. 
May they bear witness for me, that I taught them the way of salva- 
tion, 
Faithful, so far as I knew of thy word ; again may they know me, 
Fall on their Teacher's breast, and before thy face may I place them, 
Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and exclaiming with 



Father, lo ! I am here, and the children whom thou hast given me ! " 

Weeping he spake in these words; and now at the beck of the 
old man 
Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar's enclo- 
sure. 
Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecration, and softly 
With him the children read; at the close, with tremulous accents, 
Asked he the peace of heaven, a benediction upon them. 
Now should have ended his task for the day; the following Sunday 
Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord's holy Supper 
Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the Teacher silent, and laid 

his 
Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward; while thought** 
high and holy 



106 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 

Flew through the mid&t of his soul, and his eyes glanced with won- 
derful brightness. 
" On the next Sunday, who knows ! perhaps I shall rest in the grave- 
yard ! 
Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken untimely, 
Bow down his head to the earth; why delay I? the hour is accom- 
plished. 
Warm is the heart; — I will so ! for to-day grows the harvest of heaven. 
What I began accomplish I now; for what failing therein is, 
I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend father. 
Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new come in heaven, 
Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atonement? 
What it denote th, that know ye full well, I have told it you often. 
Of the new covenant a symbol it is, of Atonement a token, 
'Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his sins and trans- 
gressions 
Far has wandered from God, from his essence. 'Twas in the begin- 
ning 
Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it hangs its crown o'er 

the 
Fall to this day; in the Thought is the Fall; in the Heart the 

Atonement. 
Infinite is the Fall, the Atonement infinite likewise. 
See ! behind me, as far as the old man remembers, and forward, 
Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her wearied pinions, 
Sin and Atonement incessant go through the lifetime of mortals. 
Brought forth is Sin full-grown, but Atonement sleeps in our bosoms 
Still as the cradled babe; and dreams of heaven and of angels, 
Cannot awake to sensation; is like the tones in the harp's strings, 
Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliverer's finger. 
Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the Prince of Atonement, 
Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands now with eyes all 

resplendent, 
Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with Sin and o'ercomes her. 
Downward to earth he came and transfigured, thence reascended, 
Not from the heart in like wise, for there he still lives in the Spirit., 
Loves and atones evermore. So long as time is, is Atonement. 
Therefore with reverence receive this day her visible token. 
Tokens are dead if the things do not live. The light everlasting 
Unto the blind man is not, but is born of the eye that has vision. 
Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that is hallowed 
Lieth forgiveness enshrined; the intention alone of amendment. 
Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, and removes all 
Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only love with his arms wide extended, 
Penitence weeping and praying; the Will that is tried, and whose 

gold flows 
Purified forth from the flames; in a word, mankind by Atonement 
Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh Atonement's wine-cup. 
But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his bosom. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 107 

Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's blessed body, 
And the Redeemer's blood ! To himself he eateth and drinketh 
Death and doom ! And from this preserve us, thou heavenly Father ; 
Are ye*ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atonement?" 
Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the children 
Yes ! with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due supplications, 
Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and anthem : 
! Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our transgressions, 
Hear us ! give us thy peace ! have mercy, have mercy upon us ! 
Th' old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his eyelids, 
Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical symbols. 
Oh ! then seemed it to me, as if God, with the broad eye of mid-day, 
Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the churchyard 
Bowed down their smnmits of green, and the grass on the graves 

'gan to shiver. 
But in the children (I noted it well; I knew it) there ran a 
Tremor of holy rapture along through their icy-cold members. 
Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, and 

above it 
Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen ; they saw there 
Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right hand the Redeemer. 
Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, and angels from 

gold clouds 
Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of purple. 

Closed was the Teacher's task, and with heaven in their hearts and 
their faces, 
Uprose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely, 
Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of them pressed he 
Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his hands full of blessings, 
Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree 
The village smithy stands; 

The smith, a mighty man is he, 
With large and sinewy hands; 

And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 



108 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 

His hair is- crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
WVen the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the naming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voic% 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close ; 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought ; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought ! 



ENDYMIOSr. 



109 



ENDYMION. 

The risifig moon has hid the stars ; 

Her level rays, like golden bars, 
Lie on the landscape green, 
With shadows brown between. 

And silver white the river gleams, 
As if Diana, in her dreams, 

Had dropt her silver bow 

Upon the meadows low. 

On such a tranqtrl night as this, 

She woke Endymion with a kiss, 

"When, sleeping in the grove, 

He dreamed not of her love. 

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, 
Love gives itself, but is not bought; 
"Not voice, nor sound betrays 
Its deep, impassioned gaze. 

It comes, — the beautiful, the free, 
The crown of all humanity, — 

In silence and alone 

To seek the elected one. 

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep 
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, 
And kisses the closed eyes 
Of him, who slumbering lies. 

O weary hear ts ! slumbering eyes ! 
O drooping souls, whose destinies 

Are fraught with fear and pain. 

Ye shall be loved again { . 

No one is so' accursed by fate, 

"No one so utterly desolate, 

But soi/ne heart, though unknown. 
Responds unto his own; — 

Responds,-f-as if with unseen wings 
An angel t-ouched its quivering strings; 
And Whispers, in its song, 
u "Wher|e hast thou stayed so long?" 



110 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 

THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIE. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER. 

A youth, light-hearted and content, 
I wander through the world ; 

Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent 
And straight again is furled. 

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife 
Close in my heart was locked, 

And in the sweet repose of life 
A blessed child I rocked. 

I wake ! Away that di earn, — away ! 

Too long did it remain ! 
So long, that both by night and day 

It ever comes again. 

The end lies ever in my thought; 

To a grave so cold and deep 
The mother beautiful was brought; 

Then dropt the child asleep. 

But now the dream is wholly o'er, 
I bathe mine eyes and see; 

And wander through the world once mora, 
A youth so light and free. 

Two locks, — and they are wondrous fair, — 

Left me that vision mild; 
The brown is from the mother's hair, 

The blond is from the child. 

And when I see that lock of gold, 
Pale grows the evening-red; 

And when the dark lock I behold, 
I wish that I were dead. 



IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 

No hay pajaros en los nidos de antaiio. 

/Spanish Froverb. 

The sun is bright, — the air is clear, 
The darting swallows soar and sing, 

And from the stately elms I liiear 
The blue-bird prophesying .Spring. 



THE RAINY DAY. Ill 

So blue yon winding river flows, 

It seems an outlet from the sky, 
Where waiting till the west wind blows, 

The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 

All things are new; — the buds, the leaves, 
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, 

And even the nest beneath the eaves; — 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 

All things rejoice in youth and love, 

The fulness of their first delight ! 
And learn from the soft heavens above 

The melting tenderness of night. 

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, 

Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; 
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, 

For oh ! it is not always May ! 

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 

To some good angel leave the rest; 
For Time will teach thee soon the truth, 

There are no birds in last year's nest ! 



THE RAINY DAY. 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past^ 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark and dreary. 



LI 2 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 



GOD'S-ACRE. 

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls 
The burial-ground God's-Acre ! It is just; 

It consecrates each grave within its walls, 

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. 

God's-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown 

The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts, 
Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 

In the suro faith that we shall rise again 

At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. 

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, 
In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 

And each bright blossom mingle its perfume 

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth. 

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; 

This is the field and Acre of our God, 

This is the place where human harvests grow ! 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 

River ! that in silence windest 

Through the meadows, bright and free, 
Till at length thy rest thou findest 

In the bosom of the sea ! 

Four long years of mingled feeling, 
Half in rest, and half in strife, 

I have seen thy waters stealing 
Onward, like the stream of life. 

Thou hast taught me, Silent River ! 

Many a lesson, deep and long ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver ; 

I can give thee but a song. 

Oft in sadness and in illness, 

I have watched thy current glide, 

Till the beauty of its stillness 
Overflowed me, like a tide* 



BUST) BARTIMEUS. 113 

And in better hours and brighter, 

When I saw thy waters gleam, 
I have felt my heart beat lighter, 

And leap onward with thy stream. 

Not for this alone I love thee, 

Nor because thy waves of blue 
From celestial seas above thee 

Take their own celestial hue. 

"Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thec^, 

And thy waters disappear, 
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, 

And have made thy margin dear. 

More than this ; — thy name reminds me 

Of three friends, all true and tried ; 
And that nojne, like magic, binds me 

Closer, closer to thy side. 

Friends my soul with joy remembers ! 

How like quivering flames they start, 
When I fan the living embers 

On the hearth-stone of my heart ! 

'Tis for this, thou Silent River ! 

That my spirit leans to thee ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver, 

Take this idle song from me. 



BLIND BARTIMEUS. 

Blind Bartimeus at the gates 
Of Jericho in darkness waits ; 
He hears the crowd; — he hears a breath. 
Say, " It is Christ of Nazareth ! " 
And calls, in tones of agony, 
Itjctov, iXtrjcroi/ jjlc ! 

The thronging multitudes increase ; 
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace ! 
But still, above the noisy crowd, 
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud; 
Until they say, " He calleth thee!" 
©apcret, ey-rtpat, (jxsvcl ere / 

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands 

The crowd, " What wilt thou at my hands ? *" 



114 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 

And he replies, " Oh, give me light ! 
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight! ' 
And Jesus answers, "Yiraye* 

H TTLCTTIS (TOV (7€(T(0K€ CT€ I 

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, 
In darkness and in misery, 
Recall those mighty Voices Three, 
Irjcrov, eXirjaov fie ! 
Bapcrei, eyeipai, "Yirayc / 
C H ttlcttls gov aeacoKe ere / 



THE GOBLET OF LIFE 

Filled is Life's goblet to the brim ; 
And though my eyes with tears are dim, 
I see its sparkling bubbles swim, 
And chaunt a melancholy hymn 
With solemn voice and slow. 

No purple flowers, — no garlands green, 
Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, 
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, 
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between 
Thick leaves of mistleto. 

This goblet, wrought with curious art, 
Is filled with waters, that upstart, 
When the deep fountains of the heart, 
By strong convulsions rent apart, 
Are running all to waste. 

And as it mantling passes round, 
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, 
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned 
Are in its waters steeped and drowned, 
And give a bitter taste. 

Above the lowly plants it towers, 
The fennel, with its yellow flowers, 
And in an earlier age than ours 
Was gifted with the wondrous powers, 
Lost vision to restore. 

It gave new strength, and fearless mood; 
And gladiators, fierce and rude, 
Mingled it in their daily food; 
And he who battled and subdued, 
A wreath of fennel wore. 



MAIDENHOOD. 115 



Then in Life's goblet freely press 
The leaves that give it bitterness, 
Nor prize the coloured waters less, 
For in thy darkness and distress 

New light and strength they give ! 

And he who has not learned to know 
How false its sparkling bubbles show, 
How bitter are the drops of woe, 
With which its brim may overflow, 
He has not learned to live. 

The prayer of Ajax was for light; 
Through all that dark and desperate fight, 
The blackness of that noonday night, 
He asked but the return of sight, 
To see his foeman's face. 

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer 
Be, too, for light, — for strength to bear 
Our portion of the weight of care, 
That crushes into dumb despair 
One-half the human race. 

suffering, sad humanity ! 

ye afflicted ones, who lie 
Steeped to the lips in misery, 
Longing, and yet afraid to die, 

Patient, though sorely tried ! 

1 pledge you in this cup of grief, 
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf ! 
The Battle of our Life is brief, 

The alarm, — the struggle, — the relief,^ 
Then sleep we side by side. 



MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
As the braided streamlets run ! 

Standing, with reluctant feet, 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 



116 BALLAJDS AND OTHER POEMS. 

Gazing, with, a timid glance, 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse ! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem, 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly? 

Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar ? 

O thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares ! 

Care and age come unawares ! 

Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon, 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered; — 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
"When the young heart overflows, 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and rutht, 
In thy heart the dew of youth, 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 

Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds, that cannot heal, 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 
For a smile of God thou art. 










A traveller, by the faithful hound . 
Half buried in the snow was found, 
Still jfrasnine in his han.d of ice, 
The banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 



EXCELSIOR. 



117 



EXCELSIOR. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device. 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad; his eye beneath, 
Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the Pass ! " the old man said; 

" Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 

* Oh stay," the maiden said, " and rest 

Thy weary head upon this breast ! " 

A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 

But still he answered, with a sigh, 

Excelsior ! 

u Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche ! " 
This was the peasant's last Good-night ; 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of St Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half -buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 



118 POEMS ON" SLAVERY. 

There in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior ! 



POEMS ON SLAYEET. 



[The following poems, with one exception* were written at sea> in the lattei 
part of October 1S42. I had not then heard of Dr Clianning's death. Since 
that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have 
decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, a feeble testimony of 
my admiration for a great and good man.] 

TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. 

The pages of thy book I read, 

And as I closed each one, 
My heart, responding, ever said, 

" Servant of God ! well done ! " 

Well done ! Thy words are great and bold; 

At times they seem to me 
Like Luther's, in the days of old, 

Half -battles for the free. 

Go on, until this land revokes 

The old and chartered Lie, 
The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes 

Insult humanity. 

A voice is ever at thy side 

Speaking in tones of might, 
Like the prophetic voice, that cried 

To John in Patmos, " Write !" 

Write ! and tell out this bloody tale; 

Record this dire eclipse, 
This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, 

This dread Apocalypse ! 



THE SLAVE'S DREAM 

Beside the ungathered rice he lay, 

His sickle in his hand; 
His breast was bare, his matted hair 

Was buried in the sand. 
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, 

He saw his Native Land. 



THE SLAVE S DREAM. 

Wide through the Landscape of his dreams 

The lordly Niger flowed; 
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain 

Once more a king he strode; 
And heard the tinkling caravans 

Descend the mountain-road. 

Ho saw once more his dark-eyed queen 

Among her children stand; 
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, 

They held him by the hand ! — 
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids 

And fell into the sand. 

And then at furious speed he rode 

Along the Niger's bank ; 
His bridle-reins were golden chains, 

And, with a martial clank, 
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel 

Smiting his stallion's flank. 

Before him, like a blood-red flag, 

The bright flamingoes flew ; 
From morn till night he followed their flight, 

O'er plains where the tamarind grew, 
Till he saw the roofs of Cafire huts, 

And the ocean rose to view. 



119 



At night he heard the lion roar, 

And the hyaena scream, 
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds 

Beside some hidden stream ; 
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, 

Through the triumph of his dream. 

The forests, with their myriad tongues, 

Shouted of liberty; 
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, 

With a voice so wild and free, 
That he started in his sleep and smiled 

At their tempestuous glee. 

He did not feel the driver's whip, 

Nor the burning heat of day; 
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, 

And his lifeless body lay 
A worn-out fetter, that the soul 

Had broken and thrown away \ 



120 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 

THE GOOD PART, 

THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. 

She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, 
In valleys green and cool ; 

And all her hope and all her prido 
Are in the village school. 

Her soul, like the transparent air 
That robes the hills above, 

Though not of earth, encircles there 
All things with arms of love. 

And thus she walks among her girls 
With praise and mild rebukes ; 

Subduing e'en rude village churls 
By her angelic looks. 

She reads to them at eventide 
Of One who came to save ; 

To cast the captive's chains aside, 
And liberate the slave. 

And oft the blessed time foretells 
When all men shall be free ; 

And musical, as silver bells, 
Their falling chains shall be. 

And following her beloved Lord, 

In decent poverty, 
She makes her life one sweet record 

And deed of charity. 

For she was rich, and gave up all 
To break the iron bands 

Of those who waited in her hall. 
And laboured in her lands. 

Long since beyond the Southern Sea 
Their outbound sails have sped, 

While she, in meek humility, 
Now earns her daily bread. 

It is their prayers, which never cease, 
That clothe her with such grace; 

Their blessing is the light of peace 
That shines upon her face. 



THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. 



121 



THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. 

In dark feu3 of the Dismal Swamp 

The hunted Negro lay; 
He saw the fire of the midnight camp. 
And heard at times a horse's tramp 

And a bloodhound's distant bay. 

Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine, 

In bulrush and in brake; 
Where waving mosses shroud the pine, 
And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine 

Is spotted like the snake; 

Where hardly a human foot could pass, 

Or a human heart would dare, 
On the quaking turf of the green morass 
He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, 

Like a wild beast in his lair. 

A poor old slave, infirm and lame; 

Great scars deformed his face; 
On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, 
And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, 

Were the livery of disgrace. 

All things above were bright and fair. 

All things were glad and free; 
Lithe squirrels darted here and there, 
And wild birds filled the echoing air 

With songs of Liberty ! 

On him alone was the doom of pain, 

From the morning of his birth; 
On him alone the curse of Cain 
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, 

And struck him to the earth ! 



THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. 

Loud he sang the psalm of David ! 
He, a Negro and enslaved, 
Sang of Israel's victory, 
Sang of Zion, bright and free. 

In that hour, when night is calmest, 
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, 
In a voice so sweet and clear 
That I could not choose but hear, 



122 POEMS ON SLAVEKY. 

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, 
Such as reached the swart Egyptians, 
When upon the Red Sea coast 
Perished Pharaoh and his host. 

And the voice of his devotion 
Filled my soul with strange emotion; 
For its tones by turns were glad, 
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. 

Paul and Silas, in their prison, 
Sang of Christ the Lord arisen/ 
And an earthquake's arm of might 
Broke their dungeon-gates at night. 

But, alas ! what holy angel 
Brings the Slave this glad evangel? 
And what earthquake's arm of might 
Breaks his dungeon-gates at night? 



THE WITNESSES. 

In Ocean's wide domains, 

Half buried in the sands, 
Lie skeletons in chains, 

With shackled feet and hands. 

Beyond the fall of dews, 

Deeper than plummet lies, 
Float ships, with all their crews, 

'No more to sink nor rise. 

There the black Slave-ship swims, 
Freighted with human forms, 

Whose fettered, fleshless limbs 
Are not the sport of storms. 

These are the bones of Slaves; 

They gleam from the abyss; 
They cry, from yawning waves, 

" We are the Witnesses ! " 

Within Earth's wide domains 
Are markets for men's lives; 

Their necks are galled with chains, 
Their wrists are cramped with gyves. 

Dead bodies, that the kite 

In deserts makes its prey; 
Murders, that with affright 

Scare schoolboys from their play. 



THE QUADROON GIRL. 

All evil thoughts and deeds ; 

Anger, and lust, and pride; 
The foulest, rankest weeds, 

That choke Life's groaning tide I 

These are the woes of Slaves; 

They glare from the abyss ; 
They cry, from unknown graves, 

" We are the Witnesses ! " 



123 



THE QUADROON GIRL. 

The Slaver in the broad lagoon 

Lay moored with idle sail; 
He waited for the rising moon, 

And for the evening gale. 

Under the shore his boat was tied, 

And all her listless crew 
Watched the gray alligator slide 

Into the still bayou. 

Odours of orange-flowers, and spice, 
Reached them from time to time, 

Like airs that breathe from Paradise 
Upon a world of crime. 

The Planter, under his roof of thatch, 
Smoked thoughtfully and slow ; 

The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, 
He seemed in haste to go. 

He said, " My ship at anchor rides 

In yonder broad lagoon ; 
I only wait the evening tides, 

And the rising of the moon." 

Before them, with her face upraised, 

In timid attitude, 
Like one half curious, half amazed, 

A Quadroon maiden stood. 

Her eyes were large, and full of light, 
Her arms and neck were bare ; 

No garment she wore save a kirtle bright. 
And her own long, raven hair. 



124 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 

And on her lips there played a smile 

As holy, meek, and faint, 
As lights in some cathedral aisle 

The features of a saint. 

"The soil is barren, — the farm is old;" 
The thoughtful Planter said ; 
Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, 
And then upon the maid. 

His heart within him was at strife 

With such accursed gains ; 
For he knew whose passions gave her life, 

Whose blood ran in her veins. 

But the voice of nature was too weak ; 

He took the glittering gold ! 
Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, 

Her hands as icy cold. 

The Slaver led her from the door, 

He led her by the hand, 
To be his slave and paramour 

In a strange and distant land ! 



THE WARNING. 

Beware ! The Israelite of old, who tore 
The lion in his path,— when, poor and blind, 

He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, 
Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind 

In prison, and at last led forth to be 

A pander to Philistine revelry, — 

Upon the pillars of the temple laid 

His desperate hands, and in its overthrow 

Destroyed himself, and with him those who made 
A cruel mockery of his sightless woe; 

The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, 

Expired, and thousands perished in the fall ! 

There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, 

Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steel, 

Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, 
And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, 

Till the vast Temple of our liberties 

A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. 



THE BELFKY OF BKUGES, 

ETC. ETC. 



CARILLON. 

In the ancient town of Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city, 
As the evening shades descended, 
Low and loud and sweetly blended, 
Low at times and loud at times, 
And changing like a poet's rhymes, 
Rang the beautiful wild chimes 
From the Belfry in the market 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 
Then, with deep sonorous clangor 
Calmly answering their sweet anger, 
When the wrangling bells had ended, 
Slowly struck the clock eleven, 
And, from out the silent heaven, 
Silence on the town descended. 
Silence, silence everywhere, 
On the earth and hi the air, 
Save that footsteps here and there 
Of some burgher home returning, 
By the street lamps faintly burning, 
For a moment woke the echoes 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 

But amid my broken slumbers 
Still I heard those magic numbers, 
As they loud proclaimed the flight 
And stolen marches of the night; 
Till their chimes in sweet collision 
Mingled with each wandering vision, 
Mingled with the fortune-telling 
Gipsy -bands of dreams and fancies, 
Which amid the waste expanses 
Of the silent land of trances 
Have their solitary dwelling. 
All else seemed asleep in Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city. 



126 POEMS. 



And I thought how like these chimes 
Are the poet's airy rhymes, 
All his rhymes and roundelays, 
His conceits, and songs, and ditties, 
From the belfry of his brain, 
Scattered downward, though in vain, 
On the roofs and stones of cities ! 
For by night the drowsy ear 
Under its curtains cannot hear, 
And by day men go their ways, 
Hearing the music as they pass, 
But deeming it no more, alas ! 
Than the hollow sound of brass. 

Yet perchance a sleepless wight, 

Lodging at some humble inn 

In the narrow lanes of life, 

When the dusk and hush of night 

Shut out the incessant din 

Of daylight and its toil and strife, 

May listen with a calm delight 

To the poet's melodies, 

Till he hears, or dreams he hears, 

Intermingled with the song, 

Thoughts that he has cherished long; 

Hears amid the chime and singing 

The bells of his own village ringing, 

And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes 

Wet with most delicious tears. 

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay 
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble', 
Listening with a wild delight 
To the chimes that, through the night, 
Bang their changes from the Belfry 
Of that quaint old Flemish city. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; 
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded,? till it watches o'er the town. 

As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, 
And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood. 

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and 

vapours gray, 
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 127 

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, 
Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air. 

Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, 
But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. 

From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high; 
And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky. 

Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, 
With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes, 

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the 

choir; 
And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a fiiar. 

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain; 
They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again; 

All the Foresters of Flanders, — mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, 
Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, Guy de Dampierre. 

I beheld the pageants splendid, that adorned those days of old; 
Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of 
Gold; 

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies; 
Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease. 

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground; 
I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound; 

And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, 
And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between. 

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with rTamur and Juliers bold, 
Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold; 

Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west, 
Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest. 

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; 
And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat; 

Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dyke of sand, 
"I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!" 

Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar 
Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once 
more. 

Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, 
Lo ! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. 




MISCELLANEOUS, 



A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 

This is the place. Stand still, my steed, 

Let me review the scene, 
And summon from the shadowy Past 

The forms that once have been. 

The Past and Present here unite 

Beneath Time's flowing tide, 
Like footprints hidden by a brook, 

But seen on either side. 

Here runs the highway to the town; 

There the green lane descends, 
Through which I walked to church with thee- 

gentlest of my friends ! 

The shadow of the linden-trees 

Lay moving on the grass; 
Between them and the moving boughs, 

A shadow, thou didst pass. 

Thy dress was like the lilies, 

And thy heart as pure as they : 
One of God's holy messengers 

Did walk with me that day. 

I saw the branches of the trees 

Bend down thy touch to meet, 
The clover-blossoms in the grass 

Rise up to kiss thy feet. 

" Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 
Of earth and folly born ! " 
Solemnly sang the village choir 
On that sweet Sabbath morn. 

Through the closed blinds the golden sun 

Poured in a dusty beam, 
Like the celestial ladder seen 

By Jacob in his dream. 



THE AESENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 1 2ft 

And ever and anon, the wind, 

Sweet-scented with the hay, 
Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves 

That on the window lay. 

Long was the good man's sermon, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, 

And still I thought of thee. 

Long was the prayer he uttered, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For in my heart I prayed with him, 

And still I thought of thee. 

But now, alas ! the place seems changed ; 

Thou art no longer here : 
Part of the sunshine of the scene 

With thee did disappear. 

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heartj 

Like pine-trees dark and high, 
Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 

A low and ceaseless sigh; 

This memory brightens o'er the past, 

As when the sim, concealed 
Behind some cloud that near us hangs. 

Shines on a distant field. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, 
When the death-angel touches those swift keys ? 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 

The cries of agony, the endless groan, 
Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 

In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, 

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song. 

And loud, amid the universal clamour, 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 



130 POEMS. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin. 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; 

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 
The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, man, with such discordant noises, 
With such accursed instruments as these, 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, 
And j arrest the celestial harmonies? 

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, 
Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts, 

Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
There were no need of arsenals nor forts : 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! 

And every nation, that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain ! 

Down the dark future, through long generations, 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; 

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace ! " 

Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals 
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies ! 

But beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 






NUREMBERG. 

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands 
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. 

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them 
throng : 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, 
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old; 



NUEEMBERG. 131 

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, 
That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every 
clime. 

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, 
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand ; 

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days 
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. 

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art : 
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common 
mart; 

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, 
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. 

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, 
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their 
trust; 

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, 
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. 

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, 
Lived and laboured Albrecht Durer, the Evangelist of Art; 

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, 
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. 

Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies; 
Dead he is not, — but departed, — for the artist never dies. 

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, 
That he once has trode its pavement, that he once has breathed its air ! 

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal 

lanes, 
Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains. 

From remote and sunless suburbs, came they to the friendly guild, 
Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. 

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, 
And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime; 

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy 

bloom 
In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. 

Here Han3 Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, 
Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed. 



132 POEMS. 

But his house Is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, 
And a garland in the window, and his face above the door; 

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, 

As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long, 

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care. 
Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair. 

Vanished is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye 
Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. 

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard; 
But thy painter, Albrecht Durer, and Hans Sachs, thy cobbler-bard 

Thus, Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, 
As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless 
lay: 

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, 
The nobility of labour, — the long pedigree of toil. 



THE NORMAN BARON. 

Dans les moments de la vie ou la reflexion devient plus calme et plus pro- 
fonde, ou l'interet et l'avarice paiient moins haut que la raison, dans les in- 
stants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de peril de mort, les nobles se 
repentirent de posseder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agreable a Dieu, qui 
avait cree tous les hommes a son image. 

Thierry: Conquete de l'Angleterre. 

In his chamber, weak and dying, 
Was the Norman baron lying ; 
Loud, without, the tempest thundered, 
And the castle-turret shook. 

In this fight was Death the gainer, 
Spite of vassal and retainer, 
Aid the lands his sires had plundered, 
Written in the Doomsday Book. 

By his bed a monk was seated, 
Who in humble voice repeated 
Many a prayer and pater-noster, 
From the missal on his knee ; 

And, amid the tempest pealing, 
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, 
Bells, that, from the neighbouring kloster, 
Rang for the Nativity. 



THE NORMAN BAHOjST. 

In the hall, the serf and vassal 

Held, that night, their Christmas wassail ; 

Many a carol, old and saintly, 

Sang the minstrels and the waits. 

And so loud these Saxon gleemen 
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, 
That the storm was heard but faintly, 
Knocking at the castle-gates. 

Till at length the lays they chaunted 

Eeached the chamber terror haunted, 

Where the monk, with accents holy, 

Whispered at the baron's ear. 

Tears upon his eyelids glistened, 
As he paused awhile and listened, 
And the dying baron slowly 

Turned his weary head to hear. 

f Wassail for the kingly stranger 
Born and cradled in a manger ! 
King, like David, priest, like Aaron, 
Christ is born to set us free I " 

And the lightning showed the sainted 
Figures on the casement painted, 
And exclaimed the shuddering baron, 
" Miserere, Domine ! " 

In that hour of deep contrition, 
He beheld, with clearer vision, 
Through all outward show and fashion, 
Justice, the Avenger, rise. 

All the pomp of earth had vanished, 
Falsehood and deceit were banished, 
Reason spake more loud than passion. 
And the truth wore no disguise. 

Every vassal of his banner, 
Every serf born to his manor, 
All those wronged and wretched creatures 
By his hand were freed again. 

And, as on the sacred missal 
He recorded their dismissal 
Death relaxed his iron features, 

And the monk replied, "Amen ! v 



133 



134 POEMS. 



Many centuries have been numbered 
Since in death the baron slumbered 
By the convent's sculptured portal, 
Mingling with the common dust : 

But the good deed, through the ages 
Living in historic pages, 
Brighter grows and gleams immortal,* 
Unconsumed by moth or rust. 



EAIN IN SUMMER. 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

After the dust and heat, 

In the broad and fiery street, 

In the narrow lane, 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs ! 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing spout ! 

Across the window-pane 

It pours and pours; 

And swift and wide, 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 

The rain, the welcome rain ! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 

At the twisted brooks ; 

He can feel the cool 

Breath of each little pool; 

His fevered brain 

Grows calm again, 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighbouring school 

Come the boys, 

With more than their wonted noise 

And commotion; 

And down the wet streets 

Sail their mimic fleets, 

Till the treacherous pool 

Engulfs them in its whirling 

And turbulent ocean. 

In the country, on every side 

Where far and wide, 

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hido, 

Stretches the plain, 



RAIN IN STJLIMER. 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 
How welcome is the rain ! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand; 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 

"With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale, 

And the vapours that arise 

From the well-watered and smoking soil, 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 

Their large and lustrous eyes 

Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than man's spoken word 

Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees, 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his fields of grain, 

As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 

These, and far more than these, 

The Poet sees ! 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air^ 

And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled 

Scattering everywhere 

The showery rain, 

As the farmer scatters his grain* 

He can behold 

Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told, 

Have not been wholly sung nor said. 

For his thought, that never stops, 

Follows the water-drops 

Down to the graves of the dead, 

Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 

To the dreary fountain-head 

Of lakes and rivers under ground; 

And sees them, when the rain is done, 

On the bridge of colours seven 



135 



136 POEMS. 

Climbing up once more to heaven, " 
Opposite the setting sun. 

Thus the Seer, 

With vision clear, 

Sees forms appear and disappear, 

In the perpetual round of strange, 

Mysterious change 

From birth to death, from death to birth, 

From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; 

Till glimpses more sublime 

Of things, unseen before, 

Unto his wondering eyes reveal 

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 

Turning for evermore 

In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 



TO A CHILD. 

Dear child ! how radiant on thy mother's knee, 

With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, 

Thou gazest at the painted tiles, 

Whose figures grace, 

With many a grotesque form and face, 

The ancient chimney of thy nursery ! 

The lady with the gay macaw, 

The dancing girl, the grave bashaw 

With bearded lip and chin; 

And, leaning idly o'er his gate, 

Beneath the imperial fan of state, 

The Chinese mandarin. 

With what a look of proud command 
Thou shakest in thy little hand 
The coral rattle with its silver bells, 
Making a merry tune ! 
Thousands of years in Indian seas 
That coral grew, by slow degrees, 
Until some deadly and wild monsoon 
Dashed it on Coromandel's sand ! 
Those silver bells 
Reposed of yore, 
As shapeless ore, 

Far down in the deep-sunken wells 
Of darksome mines, 
In some obscure and sunless place, 
Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, 
Or Potosi's o'erhanging pines ! 



TO A CHILD. 

And thus for thee, little child, 

Through many a danger and escape. 

The tall ships passed the stormy cape; 

For thee in foreign lands remote, 

Beneath the burning, tropic clime, 

The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, 

Himself as swift and wild, 

In falling, clutched the frail arbute, 

The fibres of whose shallow root, 

Uplifted from the soil, betrayed 

The silver veins beneath it laid, 

The buried treasures of the pirate, Time. 

But, lo ! thy door is left ajar ! 

Thou hearest footsteps from afar ! 

And, at the sound, 

Thou turnest round 

With quick and questioning eyes, 

Like one, who, in a foreign land, 

Beholds on every hand 

Some source of wonder and surprise ! 

And, restlessly, impatiently, 

Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. 

The four walls of thy nursery 

Are now like prison walls to thee. 

No more thy mother's smiles, 

No more the painted tiles, 

Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor 

That won thy little, beating heart before; 

Thou strugglest for the open door. 

Through these once solitary halls 

Thy pattering footstep falls. 

The sound of thy merry voice 

Makes the old walls 

Jubilant, and they rejoice 

With the joy of thy young heart, 

O'er the light of whose gladness 

No shadows of sadness 

From the sombre background of memory start. 

Once, ah, once, within these walls, 
One whom memory oft recalls, 
The Father of his Country, dwelt. 
And yonder meadows broad and damp 
The fires of the besieging camp 
Encircled with a burning belt. 
Up and down these echoing stairs, 
Heavy with the weight of cares, 



137 



138 POEMS. 

Sounded bis majestic tread; 
Yes, within tins very room 
Sat he in those hours of gloom, 
"Weary both in heart and head. 

But what are these grave thoughts to thee ? 

Out, out ! into the open air ! 

Thy only dream is liberty, 

Thou carest little how or where. 

I see thee eager at thy play, 

Now shouting to the apples on the tree, 

With cheeks as round and red as they; 

And now among the yellow stalks, 

Among the flowering shrubs and plants, 

As restless as the bee. 

Along the garden walks, 

The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace ; 

And see at every turn how they efface 

Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, 

That rise like golden domes 

Above the cavernous and secret homes 

Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. 

Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, 

Who, with thy dreadful reign, 

Dost persecute and overwhelm 

These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm ! 

What ! tired already ! with those suppliant looks, 
And Voice more beautiful than a poet's books, 
Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, 
Thou comest back to parley with repose ! 
This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, 
With its o'erhanging golden canopy 
Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, 
And shining with the argent light of dews, 
Shall for a season be our place of rest. 
Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest, 
From which the laughing birds have taken wing, 
By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. 
Dream-like the waters of the river gleam; 
A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, 
And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, 
Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. 

child ! new-born denizen 
Of life's great city ! on thy head 
The glory of the morn is shed, 
Like a celestial benison ! 
Here at the portal thou dost stand. 
And with thy little hand 



TO A CHILD. 139 



Thou openest the mysterious gate 

Into the future's undiscovered land. 

I see its valves expand, 

As at the touch of Fate ! 

Into those realms of love and hate, 

Into that darkness blank and drear, 

By some prophetic feeling taught, 

I launch the bold, adventurous thought, 

Freighted with hope and fear ; 

As upon subterranean streams, 

In caverns unexplored and dark, 

Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, 

Laden with flickering fire, 

And watch its swift-receding beams, 

Until at length they disappear, 

And in the distant dark exj)ire. 

By what astrology of fear or hope 

Dare I to cast thy horoscope ! 

Like the new moon thy life appears ; 

A little strip of silver light, 

And widening outward into night 

The shadowy disk of future years; 

And yet upon its outer rim, 

A luminous circle, faint and dim, 

And scarcely visible to us here, 

Bounds and completes the perfect sphere ; 

A prophecy and intimation, 

A pale and feeble adumbration, 

Of the great world of light, that lies 

Behind all human destinies. 

Ah ! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, 
Should be to wet the dusty soil 
"With the hot tears and sweat of toil, — ■ 
To struggle with imperious thought, 
Until the overburdened brain, 
Weary with labour, faint with pain, 
Like a jarred pendulum, retain 
Only its motion, not its power, — 
Remember, in that perilous hour, 
"When most afflicted and oppressed, 
From labour there shall come forth rest. 

And if a more auspicious fate 
On thy advancing steps await, 
Still let it ever be thy pride 
To linger by the labourer's side ; 
"With words of sympathy or song 
To cheer the dreary march along 



140 POEMS. 

Of the great army of the poor, 

O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. 

Nor to thyself the task shall be 

Without reward ; for thou shalt learn 

The wisdom early to discern 

True beauty in utility ; 

As great Pythagoras of yore, 

Standing beside the blacksmith's door, 

And hearing the hammers, as they smote 

The anvils with a different note, 

Stole from the varying tones, that hung 

Vibrant on every iron tongue, 

The secret of the sounding wire, 

And formed the seven-chorded lyre. 

Enough ! I will not play the Seer ; 
I will no longer strive to ope 
The mystic volume, where appear 
The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, 
And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. 
Thy destiny remains untold; 
For, like Acestes' shaft of old, 
The swift thought kindles as it flies, 
And burns to ashes in the skies. 



THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. 

I saw, as in a dream sublime, 
The balance in the hand of Time. 
O'er East and West its beam impended! 
And day, with all its hours of light, 
Was slowly sinking out of sight, 
While, opposite, the scale of night 
Silently with the stars ascended. 

Like the astrologers of eld, 
In that bright vision I beheld 
Greater and deeper mysteries. 
I saw, with its celestial keys, 
Its chords of air, its frets of fire, 
The Samian's great iEolian lyre, 
Rising through all its sevenfold bars, 
From earth unto the fixed stars. 
And through the dewy atmosphere, 
Not only could I see, but hear, 



THE OCCULTATION OF OBION. 141 

Its wondrous and harmonious strings, 
In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, 
From Dian's circle light and near, 
Onward to vaster and wider rings, 
Where, chanting through his beard of snows, 
Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes, 
And down the sunless realms of space 
Reverberates the thunder of his bass. 

Beneath the sky's triumphal arch 
This music sounded like a march, 
And with its chorus seemed to be 
Preluding some great tragedy. 
Sirius was rising in the east; 
And, slow ascending one by one, 
The kindling constellations shone. 
Begirt with many a blazing star, 
Stood the great giant Algebar 
Orion, hunter of the beast ! 
His sword hung gleaming by his side. 
And, on his arm, the lion's hide 
Scattered across the midnight air 
The golden radiance of its hair. 

The moon was pallid, but not faint 
And beautiful as some fair saint, 
Serenely moving on her way 
In hours of trial and dismay. 
As if she heard the voice of God, 
Unharmed with naked feet she trod 
Upon the hot and burning stars, 
As on the glowing coals and bars 
That were to prove her strength, and try 
Her holiness and her purity. 

Thus moving on, with silent pace ; 

And triumph in her sweet, pale face, 

She reached the station of Orion. 

Aghast he stood in strange alarm ! 

And suddenly from his outstretched arm 

Down fell the red skin of the lion 

Into the river at his feet. 

His mighty club no longer beat 

The forehead of the bull; but he 

Reeled as of yore beside the sea, 

When, blinded by (Enopion, 

He sought the blacksmith at his forge, 

And, climbing up the mountain gorge, 

Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. 



142 POEMS. 

Then, through the silence overhead, 

An angel with a trumpet said, 

u Fore verm ore, forevermore, 

The reign of violence is o'er ! " 

And, like an instrument that flings 

Its music on another's strings, 

The trumpet of the angel cast 

Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, 

And on from sphere to sphere the words 

Reechoed down the burning chords, — 

u Forevermore, forevermore, 

The reign of violence is o'er ! " 



THE BRIDGE. 

I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, 
As the clocks were striking the houi 

And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church-tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 

In the waters under me, 
Like a golden goblet falling 

And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distance 

Of that lovely night in June, 
The blaze of the flaming furnace 

Gleamed redder than the moon. 

Among the long, black rafters 

The wavering shadows lay, 
And the current that came from the ocean 

Seemed to lift and bear them away; 

As sweeping and eddying through thera 

Rose the belated tide, 
And, streaming into the moonlight, 

The sea-weed floated wide. 

And like those waters rushing 

Among the wooden piers, 
A flood of thoughts came o'er me 

That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, oh, how often, 

In the days that had gone by, 
I had stood on that bridge at midnight 

And gazed on that wave and sky ! 



THE BRIDGE. 143 

How often, oh, how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 
Would bear me away on its bosom 

O'er the ocean wild and wide ! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 

And my life was full of care, 
And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadow over me. 

Zet whenever I cross the river 

On its bridge with wooden piers, 
,dke the odour of brine from the ocean 

Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 

Of care-encumbered men, 
Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro, 
The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old subdued and slow ! 

And forever and forever, 

As long as the river flows, 
As long as the heart has passions. 

As long as life has woes; 

The moon and its broken reflection 

And its shadows shall appear, 
As the symbol of love in heaven, 

And its wavering image here. 




144 POEMS. 



TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 

Gloomy and dark art thou, chief of the mighty Omawhaws; 
Gloomy and dark, as the driving cioud, whose name thou hast taken ! 
Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's 
Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers 
Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints. 
What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints ! 

How canst thou walk in these streets, who hast trod the green turf 

of the prairies? 
How canst thou breathe in this air, who hast breathed the sweet air 

of the mountains ? 
Ah ! 'tis vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge 
Looks of dislike in return, and question these walls and these pave- 
ments, 
Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions 
Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, 
Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division ! 
Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash ! 
There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple 
Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer 
Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their 

branches. 
There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses ! 
There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elk-horn, 
Or by the roar of the Running- Water, or where the Omawhaw 
Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the 
Blackfeet! 

Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous 

deserts? 
If! it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, 
Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder, 
And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man? 
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, 
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, 
Lo ! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri's 
Merciless current ! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires 
Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the 

daybreak 
Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horse- 
race; 
It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches ! 
Ha ! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the 

east-wind, 
Drifts evermore to the West the scanty smokes of thy wigwams 1 





* _ 


SONGS. 


^ ! 
1 


SEAWEED. 




When descends on the Atlantic 

The gigantic 
Storm-wind of the equinox, 
Landward in his wrath he scourges 

The toiling surges, 
Laden with seaweed from the rocks: 




From Bermuda's reefs; from edges 

Of sunken ledges, 
In some far-off, bright Azore; 
From Bahama, and the dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges of San Salvador; 




From the tumbling surf, that buries 

The Orkneyan skerries, 
Answering the hoarse Hebrides; 
And from wrecks of ships, and drifting 

Spars, uplifting 
On the desolate, rainy seas; — 




Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless main; 
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 

Of sandy beaches, 
All have found repose again. 




So when storms of wild emotion 

Strike the ocean 
Of the poet's soul, ere long 
From each cave and rocky fastness, 

In its vastness, 
Floats some fragment of a song : 




From the far-off isles enchanted, 

Heaven has planted 
With the golden fruit of Truth; 


j 






146 POEMS. 



From the flashing surf, whose vision 

Gleams Elysian 
In the tropic clime of Youth ; 

From the strong Will, and the Endeavour 

That forever 
Wrestles with the tides of Fate ; 
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered. 
Floating waste and desolate ; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless heart; 
Till at length in books recorded, 

They, like hoarded 
Household words, no more depart. 



THE DAY IS DONE. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist. 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 

That my soul cannot resist : 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rahx 

Come, read to me some poem, 
Some simple and heartfelt lay, 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavour; 
And to-night I long for rest. 



AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 147 

Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, 
As showers from the clouds of summer, 

Or tears from the eyelids start ; 

Who, through long days of labour, 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care, 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 

And the cares, that infest the day, 
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 

And as silently steal away. 



AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 

The day is ending, 
The night is descending; 
The marsh is frozen, 
The river dead. 

Through clouds like ashes 
The red sun flashes 
On village windows 
That "limmer red. 

The sncw recommences; 
The buried fences 
Mark no longer 

The road o'er the plain ; 

While through the meadows, 
Like fearful shadows, 
Slowly passes 
A funeral train. 

The bell is pealing, 
And every feeling 
Within me responds 
To the dismal knell; 



148 POEMS. 

Shadows are tranm? 
My heart is bewailing 
And tolling within 
Like a funeral bell 




TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK 

Welcome, my old friend, 
Welcome to a foreign fireside, 
While the sullen gales of autumn 
Shake the windows. 

The ungrateful world 
Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, 
Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, 
First I met thee. 

There are marks of age, 
There are thumb-marks on thy margin, 
Made by hands that clasped thee rudelv 
At the ale-house. 

Soiled and dull thou art ; 
Yellow are thy time-worn pages. 
As the russet, rain molested 
Leaves of autumn. 

Thou art stained with wine 
Scattered from hilarious goblets, 
As these leaves with the libations 
Of Olympus. 

Yet dost thou recall 
Days departed, half-forgotten, 
When in dreamy youth I wandered 
By the Baltic, — 

When I paused to hear 
The old ballad of King Christian 
Shouted from suburban taverns 
In the twilight. 

Thou recallest bards, 
Who, in solitary chambers, 
And with hearts by passion wasted, 
Wrote thy pages. 

Thou recallest homes 
Where thy songs of love and friendship 
Made the gloomy Northern winter 
Bright as summer. 



WALTER VON DEE VOGELWE1DE. 149 

Once some ancient Scald, 
In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, 
Chaunted staves of these old ballads 
To the Vikings. 

Once in Elsinore, 
At 1he court of old King Hamlet, 
Yorick and his boon companions 
Sang these ditties. 

Once Prince Frederick's Guard 
Sang them in their smoky barracks, — 
Suddenly the English cannon 
Joined the chorus ! 

Peasants in the field, 
Sailors on the roaring ocean, 
Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, 
All have sung them. 

Thou hast been their friend ; 
They, alas ! have left thee friendless ! 
Yet at least by one warm fireside 
Art thou welcome. 

And, as swallows build 
In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, 
So thy twittering song shall nestle 
In my bosom, — 

Quiet, close, and warm, 
Sheltered from all molestation, 
And recalling by their voices 
Youth and travel. 



WALTER VOX DER VOGELWEIDE. 

Yogelweide the Minnesinger, 
"When he left this world of ours, 

Laid his body in the cloister, 

Under Wtirtzburg's minster towers. 

And he gave the monks his treasures, 
Gave them all with this behest : 

They should feed the birds at noontide 
Daily on his place of rest ; 

Saying, " From these wandering minstrels 
I have learned the art of song; 

Let me now repay the lessons 

They have taught so well and long." 



150 POEMS. 

Thus the bard of love departed; 

And, fulfilling his desire, 
On his tomb the birds were feasted 

By the children of the choir. 

Day by day, o'er tower and turret, 
In foul weather and in fair, 

Day by day, in vaster numbers, 
Flocked the poets of the air. 

On the tree whose heavy branches 
Overshadowed all the place, 

On the pavement, on the tombstone, 
On the poet's sculptured face, 

On the cross-bars of each window, 
On the lintel of each door, 

They renewed the War of Wartburg, 
Which the bard had fought before. 

There they sang their merry carol3, 
Sang their lauds on every side; 

And the name their voices uttered 
Was the name of Vogelweid. 

Till at length the portly abbot 

Murmured, " Why this waste of food 

Be it changed to loaves henceforward 
For our fasting brotherhood." 

Then in vain o'er tower and turret, 
From the walls and woodland nests, 

When the minster bells rang noontide, 
Gathered the unwelcome guests. 

Then in vain, with cries discordant, 
Clamorous round the Gothic spire, 

Screamed the feathered Minnesingexs 
For the children of the choir. 

Time has long effaced the inscriptions 
On the cloister's funeral stones, 

And tradition only tells us 

Where repose the poet's bones. 

But around the vast cathedral, 
By sweet echoes multiplied, 

Still the birds repeat the legend, 
And the name of Vogelweid. 



DRINKING SONG. 



151 



DRINKING SONG. 

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER. 

Come, old friend ! sit down and listen ! 

From the pitcher, placed between us. 
How the waters laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus! 

Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, 

Led by his inebriate Satyrs; 
On his breast his head is sunken, 

Vacantly he leers and chatters. 

Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow, 
Ivy crowns that brow supernal 

As the forehead of Apollo, 
And possessing youth eternal. 

Round about him, fair Bacchantes, 
Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, 

Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's 
Vineyards, sing delirious verses. 

Thus he won, through all the nations, 
Bloodless victories, and the farmer 

Bore, as trophies and oblations, 

Vines for banners, ploughs for armour. 

Judged by no o'er-zealous rigour, 
Much this mystic throng expresses: 

Bacchus was the type of vigour, 
And Silenus of excesses. 

These are ancient ethnic revels, 
Of a faith long since forsaken ; 

Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, 
Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. 

Now to rivulets from the mountains 
Point the rods of fortune-tellers; 

Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, — 
Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. 

Claudius, though he sang of flagons 

And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, 

From that fiery blood of dragons 
Never would his own replenish. 

Even Redi, though he chaunted 
Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys, 

Never drank the wine he vaunted 
In his dithyrambic sallieb. 



152 POEMS. 



Then with water fill the pitcher 
Wreathed about with classic fables: 

Ne'er Falernian threw a richer 
Light upon Lucullus' tables. 

Come, old friend, sit down and listen ! 

As it passes thus between us, 
How its wavelets laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus 1 



THE OLD CLOCK ON* THE STAIRS. 

L'eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux 
mots seulement, dans le silence dcs tombeaux : " Toujours 1 jamais I Jamais! 
toujours I " — Jacques Bridaine. 

Somewhat back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ; 
And from its station in the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to all, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

Halfway up the stairs it stands, 
And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak, 
Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 
With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

By day its voice is low and light; 
But in the silent dead of night, 
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 
It echoes along the vacant hall, 
Along the ceiling, along the floor, 
And seems to say at each chamber-door. — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever I " 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and ciay& of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, 
And as if, like God, it all things saw, 
It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 



THE AREOW AND THE SONG. 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality; 
His great fires up the chimney roared; 
The stranger feasted at his board ; 
But, like the skeleton at the feast, 
That warning timepiece never ceased, — 
1 ' Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

There groups of merry children played, 
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ; 
precious hours ! golden prime, 
And affluence of love and time ! 
Even as a miser counts his gold, 
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

From that chamber, clothed in white, 
The bride came forth on her wedding night ; 
There, in that silent room below, 
The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 
And in the hush that followed the prayer, 
W<ki heard the old clock on the stair, — 
" Forever — never ! 
IS aver — forever ! " 

All are skittered now and fled, 
Some are named, some are dead ; 
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
"Ah! when shall they all meet again?" 
As in the days lon^ since gone S , 
The ancient timepiece makes r«Diy r — 
" Forever -^never ! 
Never — forever ! 

Never here, forever there, 
Where all parting, pain, and care, 
And death, and time shall disappear, — ■ 
Forever there, but never here ! 
The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 
" Forever never ! 
Never — torever ! " 



153 



THE ARROW 1ND THE SONG. 

I shot an arrow into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 






154 POEMS. 




I breathed a song into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where; 
For who has sight so keen and strong, 
That it can follow the flight of song? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 



SONNETS. 



THE EVENING STAR 

Lo ! in the painted oriel of the West, 

Whose pains the sunken sun incarnadines, 

Like a fair lady at her casement, shines 

The evening star, the star of love and rest! 

And then anon she doth herself divest 

Of all her radiant garments, and reclines 

Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines, 

With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed. 

my beloved, my sweet Hesperus ! 

My morning and my evening star of love ! 

My best and gentlest lady ! even thus, 

As that fair planet in the sky above, 

Dost thou retire into thy rest at night, 

And from thy darkened window fades the light. 



AUTUMN. 



Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, 
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, 
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, 
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain ! 
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, 
Upon thy bridge of gold ; thy royal hand 
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, 
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain. 
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended 
So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves; 
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended; 
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves, 
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid, 
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves ! 



THE HEMLOCK-TREE. 



155 



DANTE. 

Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, 

With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, 

Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, 

Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 

Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; 

Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, 

What soft compassion glows, as in the skies 

The tender stars their clouded lamps relume ! 

Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks. 

By Fra Hilario in his diocese, 

As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks, 

The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease: 

And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, 

Thy voice along the cloister whispers, " Peace ! " 



TRANSLATIONS. 



THE HEMLOCK-TREE. 

FROM THE GERiTAX 

hemlock-tree ! hemlock-tree ! how faithful are thy branches ! 

Green not alone in summer time, 

But in the winter's frost and rime ! 
hemlock-tree ! hemlock-tree ! how faithful are thy branches ! 

maiden fair ! maiden fair ! how faithless is thy bosom ! 

To love me in prosperity, 

And leave me in adversity ! 
maiden fair ! maiden fair ! how faithless is thy bosom ! 

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example ! 

So long as summer laughs she sings, 

But in the autumn spreads her wings. 
The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example ! 

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood ! 

It flows so long as falls the rain, 

In drought its springs soon dry again. 
The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood 1 



156 POEMS. 



ANNIE OF THARAW. 

FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON DAOH. 

Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, 
She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. 

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again 
To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. 

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, 
Thou, my soul, my flesh and my blood ! 

' Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow, 
We will stand by each other, however it blow. 

Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain, 
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. 

As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, 

The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall, — ■ 

So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, 
Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong, 

Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone 
In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known, — 

Through forests I '11 follow, and where the sea flows, 
Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes. 

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, 

The threads of our two lives are wtven in one. 

Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, 
Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. 

How in the turmoil of life can love stand, 

Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand f 

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife ; 
Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife. 

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love; 

Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove. 

Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen; 

1 am Idng of the household, and thou art its queen. 

It is this, my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, 
That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast. 

This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; 
While wrangling soon changes a home to a helL 



THE LEGEND OF THE CEOSSBILL. 



157 



THE STATUE OYER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN. 

Forms of saints and kings are standing 

The cathedral door above ; 
Yet I saw but one among them 

Who hath soothed my soul with love. 

In his mantle,-— wound about him, 

As their robes the sowers wind, — 
Bore he swallows and their fledglings, 

Flowers and weeds of every kind. 

And so stands he calm and childlike, 

High in wind and tempest wild; 
Oh, were I like him exalted, 

I would be like him, a child ! 

And my songs, — green leaves and blossoms^-— 
To the doors of heaven would bear, 

Calling, even in storm and tempest, 
Round me still these birds of air. 



THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN. 

On the cross the dying Saviour 
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, 

Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
In his pierced and bleeding palm. 

And by all the world forsaken, 

Sees he how with zealous care 
At the ruthless nail of iron 

A little bird is striving there. 

Stained with blood and never tiring, 

'With its beak it doth not cease, 
From the cross 't would free the Saviour, 
Its Creator's Son release. 

And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 
" Blest be thou of all the good! 

Bear, as token of this moment, 
Marks of blood and holy rood ! " 

And that bird is called the crossbill; 

Covered all with blood so clear, 
In the groves of pine it singeth 

Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 



158 POEMS. 

THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. 

FROM THE GERMAN OP HEINRICH HEINE. 

The sea hath its pearls, 
The heaven hath its stars; 

But niy heart, my heart, 
My heart hath its love. 

^ Great are the sea and the heaven; 
Yet greater is my heart, 
And fairer than pearls and stars 
Flashes and beams my love. 

Thou little, youthful maiden, 
Come unto my great heart; 

My heart, and the sea, and the heaven, 
Are melting away with love ! 



POETIC APHORISMS. 

FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FRIEDRICH VON LOGAIL 

SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 



MONEY. 



Whereunto is money good? 
Who has it not wants hardihood, 
Who has it has much trouble and care, 
Who once has had it has despair. 

THE BEST MEDICINES. 

Joy and Temperance and Repose, 
Slam the door on the doctor's nose. 

SIN. 

Man-like is it to fall into sin, 
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, 
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 
God-like is it all sin to leave. 

POVERTY AND BLINDNESS. 

A blind man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is : 
For the former seeth no man, and the latter no man t 



POETIC APHORISMS. 159 



LAW OF LIFE. 

Live I, so live I, 
To my Lord heartily, 
To my Prince faithfully, 
To my neighbour honestly. 
Die I, so die I. 

CREEDS. 

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds and doctrines three 
Extant are; but still the doubt is, where Christianity may be. 

THE RESTLESS HEART. 

A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round; 

If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground, 

CHRISTIAN LOVE. 

Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and comfort it bespoke; 
But, alas ! it now is quenched, and only bites us, like the smoke. 

ART AND TACT. 

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined ; 
Often in a wooden house a golden room we find. 

RETRIBUTION. 

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding 

small, 
Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he alL 

TRUTH. 

When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch's fire, 
Low soon they all are silent! Thus Truth silences the liar. 

RHYMES. 

If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound not well in strangers' 

ears, 
They have only to bethink them that it happens so with theirs ; 
For so long as words, like mortals, call a fatherland their own, 
They will be most highly valued where they are best and longest 

known. 



160 


POEMS. 




CURFEW. 




I. 

Solemnly, mournfully, 
Dealing its dale, 

The Curfew Bell 
Is beginning to toll. 




Cover the embers, 

And put out the light ; 

Toil comes with the morning, 
And rest with the night. 




Dark grow the windows, 
And quenched is the fire ; 

Sound fades into silence, — 
All footsteps retire. 




No voice in the chambers, 
No sound in the hall ! 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all ! 




II. 




The book is completed, 
And closed, like the day; 

And the hand that has written ifr 
Lays it away. 


- . 


Dim grow its fancies, 
Forgotten they lie ; 

Like coals in the ashes, 
They darken and die. 




Song sinks into silence, 

The story is told, 
The windows are darkened, 

The hearth-stone is cold. 




Darker and darker 

The black shadows fall ; 
SJeep and oblivion 

Reign over alL 


1 


: 



THE SEASIDE AND THE FIBESIDE 



DEDICATION. 



As one who, walking in the twilight gloom, 
Hears round about him voices as it darkens, 

And seeing not the forms from which they come, 
Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens : 

So walking here in twilight, my friends ! 

I hear your voices, softened by the distance, 
And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends 

His words of friendship, comfort, and assistance. 

If any thought of mine, or sung or told, 

Has ever given delight or consolation, 
Te have repaid me back a thousandfold, 

By every friendly sign and salutation. 

Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown ! 

Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token. 
That teaches me, when seeming most alone, 

Friends are around us, though no word be spoken. 

Kind messages, that pass from land to land ; 

Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, 
In which we feel the pressure of a hand, — 

One touch of fire, — and all the rest is mystery ! 

The pleasant books, that silently among 

Our household treasures take familiar places, 

And are to us as if a living tongue 

Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces ! 

Perhaps on earth I never shall behold, 

With eye of sense, your outward form and semblance : 
Therefore to me ye never will grow old, 

But live for ever young in my remembrance. 

Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away ! 

Your gentle voices will flow on for ever, 
"^Mien life grows bare and tarnished with decay, 

As through a leafless landscape flows a river. 



162 BY THE SEASIDE. 

Not chance of birth, or place has made us friends, 
Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, 

But the endeavour for the self -same ends, 

With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations. 

, Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk, 
Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion; 
Not interrupting with intrusive talk 

The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean. 

Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest, 

At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted, 

To have my place reserved among the rest, 
Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited ! 



BY THE SEASIDE. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 

" Build me straight, worthy Master ! 

Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! " 

The merchant's word 

Delighted the Master heard; 

For his heart was in his work, and the heart 

Giveth grace unto every art. 

A quiet smile played round his lips, 

As the eddies and dimples of the tide 

Play round the bows of ships, 

That steadily at anchor ride. 

And with a voice that was full of glee, 

He answered, " Ere long we will launch 

A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, 

As ever weathered a wintry sea ! " 

And first with nicest skill and art, 

Perfect and finished in every part, 

A little model the master wrought, 

Which should be to the larger plan 

What the child is to the man, 

Its counterpart in miniature; 

That with a hand more swift and sure 



XHE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 

The greater labor might be brought 

To answer to his inward thought. 

And as he laboured, his mind ran o'er 

The various ships that were built of yore, 

And above them all, and strangest of all 

Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, 

Whose picture was hanging on the wall, 

With bows and stern raised high in air, 

And balconies hanging here and there, 

And signal lanterns and flags afloat, 

And eight round towers, like those that frown 

From some old castle, looking down 

Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 

And he said with a smile, " Our ship, I wis, 

Shall be of another form than this ! " 

It was of another form, indeed; 

Built for freight, and yet for speed, 

A beautiful and gallant craft; 

Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, 

Pressing down upon sail and mast, 

Might not the sharp bows overwhelm; 

Broad in the beam, but sloping aft 

With graceful curve and slow degrees, 

That she might be docile to the helm, 

And that the currents of parted seas, 

Closing behind, with mighty force, 

Might aid and not impede her course. 

In the ship-yard stood the Master, 

With the model of the vessel, 
That should laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! 

Covering many a rood of ground, 

Lay the timber piled around; 

Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak, 

And scattered here and there, with these, 

The knarred and crooked cedar knees; 

Brought from regions far away, 

From Pascagoula's sunny bay, 

And the banks of the roaring Roanoke I 

Ah ! what a wondrous thing it is 

To note how many wheels of toil 

One thought, one word, can set in motion ! 

There 's not a ship that sails the ocean, 

But every climate, every soil, 

Must bring its tribute, great or small, 

And help to build the wooden wall I 



1G3 



164 BY THE SEASIDE. 

The sun was rising o'er the sea, 
And long the level shadows lay, 
As if they, too, the beams would be 
Of some great, airy argosy, 
Framed and launched in a single &a^ 
That silent architect, the en^ , 
' Had hewn and laid them every one, 
Ere the work of man was yet begun. 
Beside the Master, when he spoke, 
A youth, against an anchor leaning, 
Listened, to catch his slightest meaning. 
Only the long waves, as they broke 
In ripples on the pebbly beach, 
Interrupted the old man's speech. 

Beautiful they were, in sooth, 

The old man and the fiery youth ! 

The old man, in whose busy brain 

Many a ship that sailed the main 

Was modelled o'er and o'er again ; — ■ 

The fiery youth, who was to be 

The heir of his dexterity, 

The heir of his house and his daughter's hand > 

When he had built and launched from land 

What the elder head had planned, 

" Thus/' said he, " will we build this ship ! 

Lay square the blocks upon the slip, 

And follow well this plan of mine.. 

Choose the timbers with greatest care ; 

Of all that is unsound beware ; 

For only what is sound and strong 

To this vessel shall belong. 

Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 

Here together shall combine. 

A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, 

And the Union be her name ! 

For the day that gives her to the sea 

Shall give my daughter unto thee ! " 

The Master's word 

Enraptured the young man heard, 

And as he turned his face aside, 

With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, 

Standing before 

Her father's door, 

He saw the form of his promised bride. 

The sun shone on her golden hair, 

And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair. 

With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. 



THE BUILDIXG OF THE SHIP. 165 

Like a beauteous barge was she, 
Still at rest on the sandy beach, 
Just beyond the billow's reach ; 
But he, 
Was the restless, seething, stormy sea ! 

Ah, how skilful grows the hand 
That obeyeth Love's command ! 
It is the heart, and not the brain, 
That to the highest doth attain, 
And he who followeth Love's behest 
Far exceedeth all the rest ! 

Thus with the rising of the sun 

Was the noble task begun, 

And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds 

Were heard the intermingled sounds 

Of axes and of mallets, plied 

With vigorous arms on every side ; 

Plied so deftly and so well, 

That, ere the shadows of evening fell, 

The keel of oak for a noble ship, 

Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong, 

Was lying ready, and stretched along 

The blocks, well placed upon the slip. 

Happy, thrice happy, every one 

Who sees his labour well begun, 

And not perplexed and multiplied, 

By idly waiting for time and tide ! 

And when the hot, long day was o'er, 

The young man at the Master's door 

Sat with the maiden calm and still. 

And within the porch, a little more 

Removed beyond the evening chill, 

The father sat, and told them tales 

Of wrecks in the great September gales, 

Of pirates upon the Spanish Main, 

And ships that never came back again, «* 

The chance and change of a sailor's life, 

Want and plenty, rest and strife, 

His roving fancy, like the wind, 

That nothing can stay and nothing can bind, 

And the magic charm of foreign lands, 

With shadows of palms, and shining sands. 

Where the tumbling surf, 

O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 

Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, 

A3 he lies alone and asleep on the turf. 



1G6 BY THE SEASIDE. 

And the trembling maiden held her breath 
At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, 
With all its terror and mystery, 
The dim dark sea, so like unto Death, 
That divides and yet unites mankind ! 
And whenever the old man paused, a gleam 
From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume 
The silent group in the twilight gloom, 
And thoughtful faces, as in a dream ; 
And for a moment one might mark 
What had been hidden by the dark, 
That the head of the maiden lay at rest, 
Tenderly, on the young man's breast ! 

Day by day the vessel grew, 

With timbers fashioned strong and true, 

Stemson and keelson anol sternson-knee, 

Till, framed with perfect symmetry, 

A skeleton ship rose up to view ! 

And around the bows and along the side 

The heavy hammers and mallets plied, 

Till after many a week, at length, 

Wonderful for form and strength, 

Sublime in its enormous bulk, 

Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk ! 

And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing, 

Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething 

Caldron, that glowed, 

And overflowed 

With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. 

And amid the clamours 

Of clattering hammers, 

He who listened heard now and then 

The song of the master and his men : — v 

" Build me straight, worthy Master, 
Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, 

That shall laugh at all disaster, 
And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! " 

With oaken brace and copper band, 

Lay the rudder on the sand, 

That, like a thought, should have control 

Over the movement of the whole ; 

And near it the anchor, whose giant hand 

Would reach down and grapple with the land, 

And immovable and fast 

Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast 1 

And at the bows an image stood, 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 

By a cunning artist carved in wood, 

With robes of white, that far behind 

Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 

It was not shaped in a classic mould, 

Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 

Or Naiad rising from the water, 

But modelled from the master's daughter ! 

On many a dreary and misty night 

'Twill be seen by the rays of the signal-light, 

Speeding along through the rain and the dark, 

Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, 

The pilot of some phantom bark, 

Guiding the vessel, in its flight, 

By a path none other knows aright ! 

Behold, at last, 

Each tall and tapering mast 

Is swung into its place ; 

Shrouds and stays 

Holding it firm and fast ! 

Long ago, 

In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, 

When upon mountain and plain 

Lay the snow, 

They fell, those lordly pines ! 

Those grand, majestic pines ! 

'Mid shouts and cheers 

The jaded steers, 

Panting beneath the goad, 

Dragged down the weary, winding road 

Those captive kings so straight and tall, 

To be shorn of their streaming hair, 

And, naked and bare, 

To feel the stress and the strain 

Of the wind and the reeling main, 

Whose roar 

Would remind them for evermore 

Of their native forests they should not see again. 

And everywhere 

The slender, graceful spars 

Poise aloft in the air, 

And at the mast-head, 

White, blue, and red, 

A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 

Ah ! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, 

In foreign harbours shall behold 

That flag unrolled, 

'Twill be as a friendly hand 



1G7 



168 BY THE SEASIDE. 

Stretched out from his native land, 

Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless ! 

All is finished ! and at length 

Has come the bridal day 

Of beauty and of strength. 

To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 

With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 

And o'er the bay, 

Slowly, in all his splendours dight, 

The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old, 

Centuries old, 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 

Paces restless to and fro, 

Up and down the sands of gold, 

His beating heart is not at rest ; 

And far and wide, 

With ceaseless flow, 

His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands, 

With her foot upon the sands, 

Decked with flags and streamers gay, 

In honour of her marriage- day, 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending., 

Kound her like a veil descending, 

Ready to be 

The bride of the gray, old sea. 

On the deck another bride 
Is standing by her lover's side. 
Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 
Like the shadows cast by clouds, 
Broken by many a sunny fleck, 
Fall around them on the deck. 
The prayer is said, 
The service read, 

The joyous bridegroom bows his head; 
And in tears the good old Master 
Shakes the brown hand of his son, 
Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek 
In silence, for he cannot speak, 
And ever faster 

Down his own the tears begin to run. 
The worthy pastor— 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 169 

The shepherd of that wandering flock, 

That has the ocean for its wold, 

That has the vessel for its fold, 

Leaping ever from rock to rock — 

Spake, with accents mild and clear, 

Words of warning, words of cheer, 

But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 

He knew the chart 

Of the sailor's heart, 

All its pleasures and its griefs, 

All its shallows and rocky reefs, 

All those secret currents, that flow 

"With such resistless undertow, 

And lift and drift, with terrible force, 

The will from its moorings and its coursa 

Therefore he spake, and thus said he : — 

a Like unto ships far off at sea, 

Outward or homeward bound, are we. 

Before, behind, and all around, 

Floats and swings the horizon's bound. 

Seems at its distant rim to rise 

And climb the crystal wall of the skies, 

And then again to turn and sink, 

As if we could slide from its outer brink. 

Ah ! it is not the sea. 

It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, 

But ourselves 

That rock and rise 

"With endless and uneasy motion, 

Now touching the very skies, 

Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 

Ah ! if our souls but poise and swing 

Like the compass in its brazen ring, 

Ever level and ever true 

To the toil and the task we have to do, 

"We shall sail securely, and safely reach 

The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach 

The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, 

"Will be those of joy and not of fear!" 

Then the Master, 

"With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand ; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard, 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 



170 BY THE SEASIDE. 

And see ! she stirs ! 

She starts, — she moves, — she seems tojfeel 

The thrill of life along her keel, 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 

"With one exulting, joyous bound, 

She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 

And lo ! from the assembled crowd 

There rcse a shout, prolonged and loud, 

That to the ocean seemed to say, — 

" Take her, bridegroom, old and gray, 

Take her to thy protecting arms, 

With all her youth and all her charms ! " 

How beautiful she is ! How fair 

She lies within those arms, that press 

Her form with many a soft caress 

Of tenderness and watchful care ! 

Sail forth into the sea, ship ! 

Through wind and wave, right onward steer ! 

The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
And safe from all adversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
For gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; 
And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 

Thou, too, sail on, Ship of State ! 
Sail on, Union, strong and great ] 
Humanity with ail its fears, 
With all the hopes of future years, 
Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
We know what Master laid thy keel, 
What Workman wrought thy ribs of steel. 
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
In what a forge and what a heat 
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 
Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 
'Tis of the wave and not the rock; 
'Tis but the napping of the sail, 
And not a rent made by the gale * 
-In spite of rock and tempest's roar, . 



THE SECRET OF THE SEA. 171 

In spite of false lights on the shore, 
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 
Ourliearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 
Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 



THE EVENING STAR. 

Just above yon sandy bar, 

A3 the day grows fainter and dimmer. 
Lonely and lovely, a siDgle star 

Lights the air with a dusky glimmer. 

Into the ocean faint and far 

Falls the trail of its golden splendour, 
And the gleam of that single star 

Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender. 

Chrysaor rising out of the sea, 

Showed thus glorious and thus emulous. 
Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, 

For ever tender, soft, and tremulous. 

Thus o ? er the ocean faint and far 

Trailed the gleam of his falchion brightly; 
Is it a god, or is it a star 

That, entranced, I gaze on nightly 3 



THE SECRET OF THE SEA. 

Ah ! what pleasant visions haunt me 

As I gaze upon the sea ! 
All the old romantio legends, 

All my dreams, come back to me. 

Sails of silk and ropes of sendal, 
Such as gleam in ancient lore ; 

And the singing of the sailors, 
And the answer from the shore ! 

Most of all, the Spanish ballad 
Haunts me oft, and tarries long, 

Of the noble Count Arnaldos 
And the sailor's mystic song. 

Like the long waves on a sea-beach. 
Where the sand as silver shines, 

With a soft, monotonous cadence, 
Flow its unrhymed lyric lines ; — - 



172 BY THE SEASIDE. 

Telling how the Count Arnaldos, 
With his hawk upon his hand, 

Saw a fair and stately galley, 
Steering onward to the land ; — 

How he heard the ancient helmsman 
Chant a song so wild and clear, 

That the sailing sea-bird slowly 
Poised upon the mast to hear. 

Till his soul was full of longing, 

And he cried, with impulse strong, — 

" Helmsman ! for the love of heaven, 
Teach me, too, that wondrous song ! " 

u "Wouldst thou," — so the helmsman answered, 
" Learn the secret of the sea ? 

Only those who brave its dangers 
Comprehend its mystery ! " 

In each sail that skims the horizon, 
In each landward-blowing breeze, 

I behold that stately galley, 
Hear those mournful melodies ; 

Till my soul is full of longing 

For the secret of the sea, 
And the heart of the great ocean 

Sends a thrilling pulse through rue. 



TWILIGHT. 

The twilight is sad and cloudy, - 
The wind blows wild and free, 

And like the wings of sea-birds 
Flash the white caps of the sea. 

But in the fisherman's cottage 
There shines a ruddier light, 

And a little face at the window 
Peers out into the night. 

Close, close it is pressed to the window. 

As if those childish eyes 
Were looking into the darkness, 

To see some form arise. 

And a woman's waving shadow 

Is passing two and fro, 
Now rising to the ceiling, 

Now bowing and bending low. 



SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 173 

What tale do the roaring ocean, 

And the night-wind, bleak and wild, 
As they beat at the crazy casement, 

Tell to that little child? 

And why do the roaring ocean, 

And the night-wind, wild and bleak, 
As they beat at the heart of the mother, 

Drive the colour from her cheek? 



SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 

Southward with fleet of ice 

Sailed the corsair Death; 
Wild and fast blew the blast, 

And the east-wind was his breath. 

His lordly ships of ice 

Glistened in the sun; 
On each side, like pennons wide, 

Flashing crystal streamlets run. 

His sails of white sea-mist 

Dripped with silver rain; 
But where he passed there were cast 

Leaden shadows o'er the main. 

Eastward from Campobello 
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed; 

Three days or more seaward he bore, 
Then, alas ! the land-wind failed. 

Alas ! the land-wind failed, 
And ice-cold grew the night; 

And never more, on sea or shore, 
Should Sir Humphrey see the light. 

He sat upon the deck, 

The Book was in his hand; 

" Do not fear ! Heaven is as near," 
He said, " by water as by land ! " 

In the first watch of the night, 

Without a signal's sound, 
Out of the sea, mysteriously, 

The fleet of Death rose all around. 

The moon and the evening star 
Were hanging in the shrouds; 

Every mast, as it passed, 

Seemed to rake the passing clouds. 



M 



mLJM 



174 BY THE SEASIDE. 

They grappled with, their prize, 
At midnight black and cold ! 

As of a rock was the shock ; 

Heavily the ground-swell rolled. 

Southward through day and dark, 
They drift in close embrace, 

With mist and rain, to the Spanish Main ; 
Yet there seems no change of place. 

Southward, for ever southward, 
They drift through dark and day; 

And like a dream, in the Gulf-stream 
Sinking, vanish all away. 



THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, 
And on its outer point, some miles away, 

The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, 
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. 

Even at this distance I can see the tides, 
Upheaving, break unheard along its base, 

A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides 
In the white lip and tremour of the face. 

And as the evening darkens, lo ! how bright, 
Through the deep purple of the twilight air, 

Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light 
With strange, unearthly splendour in its glare ! 

Not one alone ; from each projecting cape 
And perilous reef along the ocean's verge, 

Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, 

Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. 

Like the great giant Christopher it stands 
Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave, 

Wading far out among the rocks and sands, 
The night o'ertaken mariner to save. 

And the great ships sail outward and return, 
Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells, 

And ever joyful, as they see it burn, 

They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. 

They come forth from the darkness, and their sails 
Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, 

And eager faces, as the light unveils, 

Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. 



THE FIRE OF DEIFT-WOOD. 175 

The mariner remembers when a child, 

On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink ; 

And when, returning from adventures wild, 
He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. 

Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same ' 
Year after year, through all the silent night 

Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame, 
Shines on that inextinguishable light ! 

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp 

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace ; 

It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, 
And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. 

The startled waves leap over it ; the storm 
Smites it with all the scourges of the rain. 

And steadily against its solid form 

Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. 

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din 

Of wings and winds and solitary cries, 
Blinded and maddened by the light within, 

Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. 

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock, 
Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, 

It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock, 
But hails the mariner with words of love. 

u Sail on ! " it says, " sail on, ye stately ships ! 

And with your floating bridge the ocean span; 
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse, 
Be yours to bring man nearer unto man ! " 



THE FIPvE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 

We sat within the farm-house old, 
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, 

Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, 
An easy entrance, night and day. 

Not far away we saw the port, — 

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,- 

The light-house, the dismantled fort, — 
The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until the night, 
Descending, filled the little room; 

Our faces faded from the sight, 
Our voices only broke the gloom. 



176 BY THE SEASIDE. 

We spake of many a vanished scene, 
Of what we once had thought and said, 

Of what had been, and might have been, 
And who was changed, and who was dead; 

And all that fills the hearts of friends, 
When first they feel, with secret pain, 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 
And never can be one again; 

The first slight swerving of the heart, 
That words are powerless to express. 

And leave it still unsaid in part, 
Or say it in too great excess. 

The very tones in which we spake 

Had something strange, I could but mark"; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 
A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips, 

As suddenly, from out the fire 
Built of the wreck of stranded ships, 

The* flames would leap and then expire. 

And, as their splendour flashed and failed, 
We thought of wrecks upon the main, — 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 
And sent no answer back again. 

The windows, rattling in their frames, — 
The ocean, roaring up the beach, — 

The gusty blast, — the bickering flames, — 
All mingled vaguely in our speech ; 

Until they made themselves a part 

Of fancies floating through the brain,- - 

The long-lost ventures of the heart, 
That send no answers back again. 

flames that glowed ! hearts that yearned ! 

They were indeed too much akin, 
The drift-wood fire without that burned, 

The thoughts that burned and glowed within. 





We th ught <>f wrecks uf>"H the ittai 
Of*hiphiha nfis'-ert. rha* were liai \\, 
And seut u ■ auswei back agaiu ! 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



RESIGNATION. 

These is no flock, however watched and tended. 

But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair ! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 

Win not be comforted ! 

Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours 

Amid these earthly damps. 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers, 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no death ! What seems so is transition. 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air ; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 



178 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken. 

May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 



/ THE BUILDERS. 

All tire architects of Fate, 

Working in these walls of Time ; 

Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 

Nothing useless is, or low ; 

Each thing in its place is best; 
And what seems but idle show 

Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise, 
Time is with materials filled; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 

Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion these; 

Leave no yawning gaps between; 
Think not, because no man sees, 

Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part; 

For the gods see everywhere. 



SATO OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS. 179 

Let us do our work as well, 

Both the unseen and the seen; 
Make the house, where gods may dwell, 

Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete, 

Standing in these walls of Time, 
Broken stairways, where the feet 

Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 

With a firm and ample base; 
And ascending and secure 

Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 
Sees the world as one vast plain, 

And one boundless reach of sky. 



7 : 



SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS. 

A handful of red sand, from the hot clime 

Of Arab deserts brought, 
Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, 

The minister of Thought. 

How many weary centuries has it been 

About those deserts blown ! 
How many strange vicissitudes has seen, 

How many histories known ! 

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite 

Trampled and passed it o'er, 
When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight 

His favourite son they bore. 

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, 

Crushed it beneath their tread; 
Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air 

Scattered it as they sped; 

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth 

Held close in her caress, 
Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith 

Illumed the wilderness; 

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms 

Pacing the Dead Sea beach, 
And singing slow their old Armenian psalms 

In half -articulate speech; 



180 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate 

With westward steps depart; 
Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate, 

And resolute in heart ! 

These have passed over it, or may have passed ! 

Now in this crystal tower 
Imprisoned by some curious hand at last, 

It counts the passing hour. 

And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand ; — 

Before my dreamy eye 
Stretches the desert with its shifting sand, 

Its unimpeded sky. 

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, 

This little golden thread 
Dilates into a column high and vast, 

A form of fear and dread. 

And onward, and across the setting sun, 

Across the boundless plain, 
The column and its broader shadow run, 

Till thought pursues in vain. 

The vision vanishes ! These walls again 

Shut out the lurid sun, 
Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain; 

The half -hour's sand is run ! 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Black shadows fall 
From the lindens tall, 
That lift aloft their massive wall 
Against the southern sky; 

And from the realms 
Of the shadowy elms 
A tide-like darkness overwhelms 
The fields that round us lie. 

But the night is fair, 
And everywhere 

A warm, soft, vapour fills the air, 
And distant sounds seem near; 

And above, in the light 
Of the star-lit night, 
Swift birds of passage wing their flight 
Through the dewy atmosphere. 



THE OPEN WINDOW. 

I hear the beat 
Of their pinions fleet, , 
As from the land of snow and sleet 
They seek a southern lea. 

I hear the cry 
Of their voices high 
Falling dreamily through the sky, 
But their forms I cannot see. 

Oh, say not so ! 
Those sounds that flow 
In murmurs of delight and woe 
Come not from wings of birds. 

They are the throngs 
Of the poet's songs, 

Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, 
The sound of winged words* 

This is the cry 
Of souls, that high 
On toiling, beating pinions, fly, 
Seeking a warmer clime. 

From their distant flight 
Through realms of light 
It falls into our world of night, 

With the murmuring sound of rhyme. 



181 



THE OPEN WINDOW. 

The old house by the lindens 

Stood silent in the shade, 
And on the gravelled pathway 

The light and shadow played 

I saw the nursery windows 

Wide open to the air; 
But the faces of the children, 

They were no longer there. 

The large Newfoundland house-dog 
Was standing by the door; 

He looked for his little playmates, 
Who would return no more. 

They walked not under the lindens, 
They played not in the hall? 

But shadow, and silence, and sadness, 
Were hanging over all. 



182 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

The birds sang in the branches 
With sweet, familiar tone; 

But the voices of the children 
Will be heard in dreams alone ! 

And the boy that walked beside me, 
He could not understand 

Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 
I pressed his warm, soft hand ! 



KING WITLAFS DRINKING-HORN. 

Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, 

Ere yet his last he breathed, 
To the merry monks of Croyland 

His drinking-horn bequeathed, — 

That, whenever they sat at their revel?, 
And drank from the golden bowl, 

They might remember the donor, 
And breathe a prayer for his soul. 

So sat they once at Christmas, 

And bade the goblet pass; 
In their beards the red wine glistened 

Like dew-drops in the grass. 

They drank to the soul of Witlaf, 
They drank to Christ the Lord, 

And to each of the Twelve Apostles, 
Who had preached his holy word. 

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs 

Of the dismal days of yore, 
And as soon as the horn was empty 

They remembered one Saint more. 

And the reader droned from the pulpit. 

Like the murmur of many bees, 
The legend of good Saint Guthlac. 

And Saint Basil's homilies; 

Till the great bells of the convent, 
From their prison in the tower, 

Guthlac and Bartholomews, 
Proclaimed the midnight hour. 

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney. 

And the Abbot bowed hi3 head, 
And the flamelets napped and flickered, 

But the Abbot was stark and dead. 



GASPAR BECERRA. 

Yet still in his pallid fingers 
He clutched the golden bowl, 

In which, like a pearl dissolving, 
Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 

But not for this their revels 

The jovial monks forbore, 
For they cried, " Fill high the goblet ! 

We must drink to one Saint more ! " 



183 



GASPAR BECERRA. 

By his evening fire the artist 
Pondered o'er his secret shame; 

Bafiied, weary, and disheartened, 

Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 

'Twas an image of the Virgin 

That had tasked his utmost skill; 

But, alas ! his fair ideal 

Vanished and escaped him still. 

From a distant eastern island 

Had the precious wood been brought; 
Day and night the anxious master 

At his toil untiring wrought; 

Till, discouraged and desponding, 

Sat he now in shadows deep, 
And the day's humiliation 

Found oblivion in sleep. 

Then a voice cried, " Rise, master ! 

From the burning brand of oak 
Shape the thought that stirs within thee ! " 

Arid the startled artist woke, — 

Woke, and from the smoking ember* 
Seized and quenched the glowing wood; 

And therefrom he carved an image, 
And he saw that it was good. 

thou sculptor, painter, poet ! 

Take this lesson to thy heart : 
That is best which lieth nearest; 

Shape from that thy work of art. 



184 BY THE FIKESIDE. 



PEGASUS IN POUND. 

Once into a quiet village, 

Without haste and without heed, 

In the golden prime of morning, 
Strayed the poet's winged steed. 

It was Autumn, and incessant 

Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves^ 
And, like living coals, the apples 

Burned among the withering leaves. 

Loud the clamorous bell was ringing 
From its belfry gaunt and grim ; 

'Twas the daily call to labour, 
Not a triumph meant for him. 

Not the less he saw the landscape, 

In its gleaming vapour veiled; 
Not the less he breathed the odours 

That the dying leaves exhaled. 

Thus, upon the village common, 
By the school-boys he was found; 

And the wise men, in their wisdom, 
Put him straightway into pound. 

Then the sombre village crier, 

Ringing loud his brazen bell, 
Wandered down the street proclaiming 

There was an estray to sell. 

And the curious country people, 
Rich and poor, and young and old, 

Came in haste to see this wondrous 
Winged steed, with mane of gold. 

Thus the day passed, and the evening 
Fell, with vapours cold and dim ; 

But it brought no food nor shelter, 
Brought no straw nor stall for him. 

Patiently, and still expectant, 

Looked he through the wooden bars, 

Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, 
Saw the tranquil, patient stars ; 

Till at length the bell at midnight 

Sounded from its dark abode, 
And, from out a neighbouring farm-yard * 

Loud the cock Alectvyon crowed. 



TEGNEES DRAPA. 

Then, with nostrils wide distended, 
Breaking from his iron chain, 

And unfolding far his pinions, 
To those stars he soared again. 

On the morrow, when the village 
Woke to all its toil and care, 

Lo ! the strange steed had departed, 
And they knew not when nor where. 

But they found upon the greensward 
Where his struggling hoofs had trod, 

Pure and bright, a fountain flowing 
From the hoof -marks in the sod. 

From that hour, the fount unfailing 
Gladdens the whole region round, 

Strengthening all who drink its waters, 
While it soothes them with its sound* 



185 



TEGNER'S DRAPA. 

I heard a voice, thai cried, 

" Balder the Beautiful 

Is dead, is dead I " 

And through the misty air 

Passed like the mournful cry 

Of sunward sailing cranes. 

I saw the pallid corpse 

Of the dead sun 

Borne through the Northern sky. 

Blasts from Niffelheim 

Lifted the sheeted mists 

Around him as he passed. 

And the voice for ever cried, 

" Balder the Beautiful 

Is dead, is dead ! " 

And died away 

Through, the dreary night, 

In accents of despair. 

Balder the Beautiful, 

God of the summer sun, 

Fairest of all the gods ! 

Light from his forehead beamed. 

Runes were upon his tongue, 

As on tiie warrior's sword. 



186 BY THE FIEESIDE. 

All things in earth and air 
Bound were by magic spell 
Never to do him harm; 
Even the plants and stones; 
All save the mistletoe, 
The sacred mistletoe ! 

Hoeder, the blind old God, 
Whose feet are shod with silence. 
Pierced through that gentle breast 
With his sharp spear, by fraud 
Made of the mistletoe, 
The accursed mistletoe ! 

They laid him in his ship, 
With horse and harness, 
As on a funeral pyre. 
Odin placed 
A ring upon his finger, 
And whispered in his ear. 

They launched the burning ship I 

It floated far away 

Over the misty sea, 

Till like the sun it seemed, 

Sinking beneath the waves, 

Balder returned no more ! 

So perish the old Gods ! 

But out of the sea of Time 

Rises a new land of song, 

Fairer than the old. 

Over its meadows green 

Walk the young bards and sing. 

Build it again, 

ye bards, 

Fairer than before ! 

Ye fathers of the new race. 

Feed upon morning dew, 

Sing the new Song of Love ! 

The law of force is dead ! 
The law of love prevails ! 
"Thor, the thunderer, 
Shall rule the earth no more, 
No more, with threats, 
Challenge the meek Christ. 

Sing no more, 

O ye bards of the North, 



SONNET. — THE SINGEES. 187 

Of Vikings and of Jarls ! 
Of the days of Eld 
Preserve the freedom only 
Not the deeds of blood. 



SONNET 

ON MRS KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

precious evenings ! all too swiftly sped ! 

Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages 

Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, 

And giving tongues unto the silent dead ! 

How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, 

Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages 

Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, 

Anticipating all that shall be said ! 

happy Reader ! having for thy text 

The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caught 

The rarest essence of all human thought ! 

happy Poet ! by no critic vext ! 

How must thy listening spirit now rejoice 

To be interpreted by such a voice ! 



THE SINGERS. 

God sent his Singers upon earth 
With songs of sadness and of mirth, 
That they might touch the hearts of men, 
And bring them back to heaven again. 

The first, a youth, with soul of fire, 

Held in his hand a golden lyre ; 

Through groves he wandered, and by streams, 

Playing the music of our dreams. 

The second, with a bearded face, 
Stood singing in the market-place, 
And stirred with accents deep and loud 
TLe hearts of all the listening crowd. 

A gray, old man, the third and last, 
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, 
While the majestic organ rolled 
Contrition from its mouths of gold. 



1 88 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

And those who heard the Singers three 
Disputed which the best might be ; 
For still their music seemed to start 
Discordant echoes in each heart. 

But the great Master said, " I see 

No best in kind, but in degree ; 

I gave a various gift to each, 

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. 

" These are the three great chords of might, 
And he whose ear is tuned aright 
Will hear no discord in the three, 
But the most perfect harmony." 



SUSPIRIA. 

Take them, Death! and bear^way 
Whatever thou canst call thine own ! 

Thine image, stamped upc-n this clay, 
Doth give thee that, but that alone ! 

Take them, Grave ! and let them lie 
Folded upon thy narrow shelves, 

As garments by the soul laid by, 
And precious only to ourselves ! 

Take them., O great Eternity ! 

Our little life is but a gust, 
That bends the branches of thy tree, 

And trails its blossoms in the dust. 



HYMN 

FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION. 

Christ to the young man said: " Yet one thing more; 

If thou wouldst perfect be, 
Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, 

And come and follow me ! " 

Within this temple Christ again, unseen, 

Those sacred words hath said. 
And his invisible hands to-day have been 

Laid on a young man's head. 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTER CULLLE. 189 

And evermore beside him on his way 

The unseen Christ shall move, 
That he may lean upon his arm and say, 

"Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?" 

Beside him at the marriage-feast shall be, 

To make the scene more fair; 
Beside him in the dark Gethsemane 

Of pain and midnight prayer. 

holy trust ! endless sense of rest ! 

Like the beloved John 
To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, 

And thus to journey on ! 



THE BLIND GIRL OP CASTEL-CUILLE. 

FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN. 



Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might 
Rehearse this little tragedy aright. 
Let me attempt it with an English quill ; 
And take, Reader, for the deed the will. 

I. 

At the foot of the mountain height 

Where is perched Castel-Cuille, 
When the apple, the plum, and the almond-tree 

In the plain below were growing white. 

This is the song one might perceive 
On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve : 

6i The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom^ 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 

This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, 
Seemed from the clouds descending; 
When lo ! a merry company 
Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye, 

Each one with her attendant swain, 
Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain; 
Resembling there, so near unto the sky, 
Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent 
For their delight and our encouragement. 



X 



190 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

Together blending, 
And soon descending 
The narrow sweep 
Of the hill-side steep, 
They wind aslant 
Towards Saint Amant, 
Through leafy alleys 
Of verdurous valleys 
"With merry sallies 
Singing their chant : 

" The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, 
With garlands for the bridal laden ! 

The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom, 
The sun of March was shining brightly, 

And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly 
Its breathings of perfume. 

When one beholds the dusty hedges blossom, 
A rustic bridal, ah ! how sweet it is ! 

To sounds of joyous melodies, 
That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom, 
A band of maidens 
Gayly frolicking, 
A band of youngsters 
Wildly rollicking \ 
Kissing, 



With fingers pressing, 

Till in the veriest 
Madness of mirth, as they dance, 
They retreat and advance, 

Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merries 
While the bride, with roguish eyes, 
Sporting with them, now escapes and cries : 
" Those who catch me 
Married verily 
This year shall be!" 

And all pursue with eager haste, 
And all attain what they pursue, 
And touch her pretty apron fresh and new, 
And the linen kirtle round her waist. 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUTLLk 191 

Meanwhile, whence comes it that among 

These youthful maidens fresh and fair. 

So joyous, with such laughing air, 

Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue ? 

And yet the bride is fair and young ! 
Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all. 
That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall? 

Oh, no ! for a maiden frail, I trow, 

Never bore so lofty a brow ! 
What lovers ! they give not a single caress ! 
To see them so careless and cold to-day, 

These are grand people, one would say. 
What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him oppress ? 

It is, that, half-way up the hill, 
In yon cottage, by whose walls 
Stand the cart-house and the stalls, 
Dwelleth the blind orphan still, 
Daughter of a veteran old ; 
And you must know, one year ago, 
That Margaret, the young and tender, 
Was the village pride and splendour, 
And Baptiste her lover bold. 
Love, the deceiver, them ensnared: 
For them the altar was prepared; 
But, alas ! the summer's blight, 
The dread disease that none can stay, 
The pestilence that walks by night, 
Took the young bride's sight away. 

All at the father's stern command was changed ; 
Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged. 
Wearied at home, ere long the lover fled ; 

Returned but three short days ago, 

The golden chain they round him throw, 

He is enticed, and onward led 

To marry Angela, and yet 

Is thinking ever of Margaret. 

Then suddenly a maiden cried, 
" Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate ! 
Here comes the cripple Jane ! " And by a fountain's side 
A woman, bent and gray with years, 
Under the mulberry-trees appears, 
And all towards her run, as fleet 
As had they wings upon their feet. 

It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, 
Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. 



192 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

She telleth f ortvmes, and none complain, 
She promises one a village swain, 
Another a happy wedding-day, 
And the bride a lovely boy straightway. 
All comes to pass as she avers ; 
She never deceives, she never errs. 

But for this once the village seer 
Wears a countenance severe, 

And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white 
Her two eyes flash like cannons bright 
Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue, 
Who, like a statue, stands in view; 
Changing colour, as well he might, 
When the beldame wrinkled and gray 
Takes the young bride by the hancf, 
And, with the tip of her reedy wand 
Making the sign of the cross, doth say : — 
" Thoughtless Angela, beware ! 
Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom^ 
Thou diggest for thyself a tomb ! " 

And she was silent ; and the maidens f air 

Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear ; 

But on a little streamlet silver-clear, 
What are two drops of turbid rain ? 
Saddened a moment, the bridal train 
Resumed the dance and song again ; 

The bridegroom only was pale with fear ; — 
And down green alleys 
Of verdurous valleys, 
With merry sallies, 
They sang the refrain : — 

{i The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom ; 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 

% 

II. 

And by suffering worn and weary, 
But beautiful as some fair angel yet, 
Thus lamented Margaret, 
In her cottage lone and dreary : — 

" He has arrived ! arrived at; last ! 
Yet Jane has named him not these three days past ; 

Arrived ! yet keeps aloof so far ! 
And knows that of my night he is the star ! 



THE BUND GIRL OF CAST^L-CUILLE. 193 

Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted, 
And count the moments since he went away ! 
Come ! keep the promise of that happier day, 
That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted ! 
What joy have I without thee ? what delight? 
Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery; 
Day for the others ever, but for me 

For ever night ! for ever night ! 
When he is gone 'tis dark ! my soul is sad 
I suffer ! my God ! come, make me glad. 
When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude; 
Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes \ 
Within them shines for me a heaven of love, 
A heaven all happiness, like that above, 

No more of grief ! no more of lassitude ! 
Earth I forget, — and heaven, and all distresses, 
When seated by my side my hand he presses ; 

But when alone, remember all ! 
Where is Baptiste ? he hears not when I call ! 
A branch of ivy, dying on the ground, 

I need some bough to twine around ! 
In pity come ! be to my suffering kind ! 
True love, they say, in grief doth more abound ! 

What then— when one is blind ? 

" Who knows ? perhaps I am forsaken ! 
Ah ! woe is me ! then bear me to my grave ! 

God ! what thoughts within me waken ! 
Away ! he will return ! I do but rave ! 

He will return ! I need not fear ! 

He swore it by our Saviour dear ; 

He could not come at his own will; 

Is weary, or perhaps is ill ! 

Perhaps his heart, in this disguise, 

Prepares for me some sweet surprise ! 
But some one comes ! Though blind, my heart can see ! 
And that deceives me not ! 'tis he ! 'tis he ! " 

And the door ajar is set, 

And poor, coiinding Margaret 
Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes ; 
'Tis only Paul, her brother, who thus cries: — 

" Angela the bride has passed ! 

1 saw the wedding guests go by; 

Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked ? 
For all are there but you and I ! " 

u Angela married ! and not send 
- To tell her secret unto me 1 



194 "BY THE FIRESIDE. 

Oh, speak ! who may the bridegroom be ?" 
u My sister, 'tis Baptiste, thy friend ! " 

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said; 
A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks; 

An icy hand, as heavy as lead, 

Descending, as her brother speaks, 

Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat, 

Suspends awhile its life and heat. 
She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed, 
A wax Madonna a3 a peasant dressed. 

At length, the bridal song again 
Brings her back to her sorrow and pain. 

" Hark ! the joyous airs are ringing ! 

Sister, dost thou hear them singing? 

How merrily they laugh and jest ! 

Would we were bidden with the rest ! 

I would don my hose of homespun gray, 

And my doublet of linen striped and gay; 

Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed 

Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said I " 

" I know it ! " answered Margaret; 
Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet, 

Mastered again ; and its hand of ice 
Held her heart crushed, as in a vice ! 

" Paul, be not sad ! 'Tis a holiday; 

To-morrow put on thy doublet gay ! 

But leave me now for a while alone." 

Away, with a hop an<7 a jump, went Paul, 

And, as he whistled along the hall, 

Entered Jane, the crippled crone. 

" Holy Virgin ! what dreadful heat ! 
I am faint, and weary, and out of breath ! 
But thou art cold, — art chill as death; 
My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?" 

" Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride; 
And, as I listened to the song, 
I thought my turn would come ere long, 
Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. 
Thy cards forsooth can never lie. 
To me such joy they prophesy, 
Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide 
When they behold him at my side. 
And, poor Baptiste, what say est thou? 

It must seem long to him; — methinks I see him 
nowl" 



THE BLIND GIEL OF CAST^L-CUILLk 195 

Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press : 

" Thy love I cannot all approve ; 
We must not trust too much to happiness; — 
Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less ! " 

" The more I pray, the more I love ! 
It is no sin, for God is on my side ! " 
It was enough; and Jane no more replied. 

Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold; 

But to deceive the beldame old 

She takes a sweet, contented air ; 

Speak of foul weather or of fair, 

At every word the maiden smiles ! 

Thus the beguiler she beguiles; 
So that, departing at the evening's close 

She says, " She may be saved ! she nothing knows \ " 

Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress ! 
Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess; 
This morning, in the fulness of thy heart, 

Thou wast so, far beyond thine art ! 

III. 

Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating, 
And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky, 
Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting, 
How differently ! 

Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed, 

The one puts on her cross and crown, 
Decks with a huge bouquet her breast, 
And flaunting, fluttering up and down, 
Looks at herself, and cannot rest. 

The other, blind, within her little room, 

Has neither crown nor flower's perfume; 
But in their stead for something gropes apart. 

That in a drawer's recess doth lie, 
And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye, 

Convulsive clasps it to her heart. 

The ono, fantastic, light as air, 

'Mid kisses ringing, 

And joyous singing, 
Forgets to say her morning prayer ! 

The other, with cold drops upon her brow, 
Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor, 



196 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

And whispers, as her brother opes the door, 
" God ! forgive me now ! " 

And then the orphan, young and blind, 
Conducted by her brother's hand, 
Towards the church, through paths unscanned, 
With tranquil air, her way doth wind. 

Odours of laurel, making her faint and pale, 
Round her at times exhale, 

And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, 
But brumal vapours gray. 

Near that castle, fair to see, 
Crowded with sculptures old, in every part, 

Marvels of nature and of art, 

And pro ad of its name of high degree, 

A little chapel, almost bare 

At the base of the rock, is builded there ; — 

All glorious that it lifts aloof, 

Above each jealous cottage roof, 
Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales, 

And its blackened steeple high in air, 

Round which the osprey screams and sails. 

" Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by ! " 
Thus Margaret said. " Where are we ? we ascend ! " 

" Yes; seest thou not our journey's end ? 
Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry ? 
The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know ! 
Dost thou remember when our father said, 

The night we watched beside his bed, 

' O daughter, I am weak and low; 
Take care of Paul; I feel that I am dying !' 
And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying ? 
Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud; 
And here they brought our father in his shroud. 
There is his grave; there stands the cross we set; 
Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret ? 

Come in ! The bride will be here soon : 
Thou tremblest ! my God ! thou art going to &wcon ! " 
She could no more, — the blind girl, weak and weary ! 
A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary, 
"What wouldst thou do, my daughter?" — and she 
started ; 

And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted; 
Bat Paul, impatient, urges ever more 

Her steps towards the open door; 
And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid 
Crushes the laurel near the house immortal, 
And with her head, as Paul talks on again, 



THE BLESTD GIRL OF CASTJ^CUILlJ:. 

Touches the crown of filigrane 
Suspended from the low-arched portal, 
No more restrained, no more afraid, 
She walks, as for a feast arrayed, 
And in the ancient chapel's sombre night 
They both are lost to sight. 

At length the bell, 
"With booming sound, 
Sends forth, resounding round, 
Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell. 
It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain ; 
And yet the guests delay not long, 
For -soon arrives the bridal train, 
And with it brings the village throng. 

In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay, 
For lo ! Baptiste on this triumphant day, 
Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning, 
Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning. 

And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis ; 

To be a bride is all ! The pretty lisper 

Feels her heart swell to hear all around her whisper, 

" How beautiful ! how beautiful she i? ! " 

But she must calm that giddy head, 

For aheady the Mass is said; 

At the holy table stands the priest; 
The wedding ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it; 
Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it, 

He must pronounce one word at least ! 
'Tis spoken; and sudden at the groomsman's side 
" 'Tis he ! " a well-known voice has cried. 
And while the wedding guests all hold their breath, 
Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see ! 
"Baptiste," she said, "since thou hast wished my 

death, 
As holy water be my blood for thee ! " 
And calmly in the air a knife suspended ! 
Doubtless her guardian angel near attended, 

For anguish did its work so well, 

That, ere the fatal stroke descended, 
Lifeless she fell ! 

At eve, instead of bridal verse, 
The De Profundis filled the air; 
Decked with flowers a simple hearse 
To the churchyard forth they bear; 



197 



198 BY THE FIKESIDE. 

Village girls in robes of snow 
Follow, weeping as they go ; 
Nowhere was a smile that day, 
No, ah, no ! for each one seemed to say : — 

• The roads should mourn and be veiled in gloom, 
So fair a corpse shall leave its home ! 
Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away ! 
So fair a corpse shall pass to-day ! " 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

FROM THE NOEI BOURGTJIGNON DE GUI BAR6ZAL 

I hear along our street 
Pass the minstrel throngs; 
Hark ! they play so sweet, 
On their hautboys, Christmas songs f 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 

In December ring 
Every day the chimes; 
Loud the gleemen sing 
In the streets their merry rhymes. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Shepherds at the grange, 
Where the Babe was born, 
Sang, with many a change, 
Christmas carols until morn. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire I 

These good people sang 
Songs devout and sweet; 
While the rafters rang, 
There they stood with freezing feet. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

Nuns in frigid cells 
At this holy tide, 
For want of something else, 
Christmas songs at times have trie^i 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 

"Washerwomen old, 
To the sound they beat, 
Sing by rivers cold, 
With uncovered heads and feet. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Who by the fireside stands 
Stamps his feet and sings; 
But he who blows his hands 
Not so gay a carol brings. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire! 



199 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



PROLOGUE. 



THE SPIKE OF STRASBURC CATHEDRAL. 

Night and storm, Lucifer, with the powers of the Air, trying to tear 
down the Cross, 

Lucifer, Hasten! hasten I 

ye spirits ! 

From its station drag the ponderous 

Cross of iron, that to mock us 

Is uplifted high in air ! 
Voices. 0, we cannot ! 

For around it 

All the Saints and Guardian Angels 

Throng in legions to protect it; 

They defeat us everywhere ! 

The Bells, 
Laudo Deum verum ! 
Plebem voco ! 
Congrego clerum ! 
Lucifer, Lower! lower! 
Hover downward ! 
Seize the loud, vociferous bells, and 
Clashing, clanging, to the pavement 
Hurl them from their windy tower ! 
Voices. All thy thunders ~ 
Here are harmless ! 
For these bells have been anointed, 
And baptised with holy water ! 
They defy our utmost power. 

The Bells. 
Defunctos ploroi 
Pestem f ugo ! 
Festa decoro f 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Lucifer. Shake the casements ! 

Break the painted 

Panes,, that flame with gold and crimson ; 

Scatter them like leaves of Autumn, 

Swept away before tha blast ! 
Voices. 0, we cannot I 

The Archangel 

Michael flames from every window, 

With the sword of fire that drove us 

Headlong out of heaven, aghast ! 



201 



The Bells. 

Jftinera plango ! 
Fulgura f rango I ^ 
Sabbata pango ! 

Lucifer. Aim your lightnings 

At the oaken, 

Massive, iron-studded portala : 

Sack the house of God, and scatter 

"Wide the ashes of the dead ! 
Voices. 0, we cannot I 

The Apostles 

And the Martyrs, wrapped in mantles,, 

Stand as warders at the entrance, 

Stand as sentinels o'erhead ! 

Tkt Bells. 

Excito lentos ! 
Dissipo ventos ? 
Paco cruentos l 

Lucifer. Baffled! baffled! 

Inefficient, 

Craven spirits ! leave this labour 

Unto Time, the great Destroyer J 

Come away, ere night is gone ! 
Voices. Onward! onward! 

With the night wind, 

Over field and farm and forest, 

Lonely homestead, darksome hamlet, 

Blighting all we breathe upon ! 

They sweep away. Organ and Gregorian Chant. 

Choir. 

Kocte surgentes 
Vigilemus omnes 1 



202 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine. A chamber in a towei\ 
Prince Henry, sitting alone, ill and restless. Midnight. 

Prince Henry. I cannot sleep ! my fervid brain 
Calls up the vanished Past again, 
And throws its misty splendours deep 
Into the pallid realms of sleep ! 
A breath from that far-distant shore 
Comes freshening ever more and more, 
And wafts o'er intervening seas 
Sweet odours from the Hesperides ! 
A wind, that through the corridor 
Just stirs the curtain, and no more, 
And, touching the seolian strings, 
Faints with the burden that it brings ! 
Come back ! ye friendships long departed ! 
That like o'erflowing streamlets started, 
And now are dwindled, one by one, 
To stony channels in the sun ! 
Come back ! ye friends, whose lives are ended, 
Come back, with all that light attended, 
Which seemed to darken and decay 
When ye arose and went away! 

They come, the shapes of joy and woe, 
The airy crowds of long ago, 
The dreams and fancies known of yore. 
That have been, and shall be no more. 
They change the cloisters of the night 
Into a garden of delight; 
They made the dark and dreary hours 
Open and blossom into flowers ! 
I would not sleep ! I love to be 
Again in their fair company; 
But ere my lips can bid them stay, 
They pass and vanish quite away 1 
Alas ! our memories may retrace 
Each circumstance of time and place, 
Season and scene come back again, 
And outward things unchanged remain ; 
The rest we cannot reinstate ; 
Ourselves we cannot re-create, 
Nor set our souls to the same key 
Of the remembered harmony ! 

Rest ! rest ! 0, give me rest and peace ! 
The thought of life that ne'er shall cease 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 203 

Has something in it like despair, 
A weight I am too weak to bear! 
Sweeter to this afflicted breast 
The thought of never-ending rest ! 
Sweeter the undisturbed and deep 
Tranquillity of endless sleep ! 
A flash <f lightning, out of which Lucifer appears, in the garb of a 
travelling Physician. 

Lucifer. All hail, Prince Henry ! 

Prince Henry (starting). Who is it speaks ? 

Who and what are you ? 
Lucifer. One who seeks 

A moment's audience with the prince. 
Prince Henry. When came you in? 
Lucifer. A moment since. 

I found your study door unlocked, 

And thought you answered when I knocked. 
Prince Henry. I did not hear you. 
Lucifer. You heard the thunder ; 

It was loud enough to waken the dead. 

And it is not a matter of special wonder 

That, when God is walking overhead, 

You should not hear my feeble tread. 
Prince Henry. What may your wish or purpose be ? 
Lucifer. Nothing or everything, as it pleases 

Your Highness. You behold in me 

Only a travelling Physician ; 

One of the few who have a mission 

To cure incurable diseases, 

Or those that are called so. 
Prince Henry. Can you bring 

The dead to life? 
lMcifer. Yes ; very nearly. 

And, what is a wiser and better thing, 

Can keep the living from ever needing 

Such an unnatural, strange proceeding, 

By showing conclusively and clearly 

That death is a stupid blunder merely, 

And not a necessity of our lives. 

My being here is accidental ; 

The storm, that against your casement drives, 

In the little village below waylaid me. 

And there I heard, with a secret delight, 

Of your maladies physical and mental, 

Which neither astonished nor dismayed me. 

And I hastened hither, though late in the night, 

To proffer my aid ! 
Prince Henry (ironically). For this you came I 



204 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Ah, how can I ever hope to requite 
This honour from one so erudite ? 

Lucifer. The honour is mine, or will be when 
I have cured your disease. 

Prince Henry. But not till them 

Lucifer. What is your illness ? 

Prince Henry. It has no name. 

A smouldering, dull, perpetual flame, 
As in a kiln, burns in my veins, 
Sending up vapours to the head ; 
My heart has become a dull lagoon, 
Which a kind of leprosy drinks and drains : 
I am accounted as one who is dead, 
And, indeed, I think that I shall be soon. 

Lucifer. And has Gordonius the Divine, 
In his famous Lily of Medicine, — 
I see the book lies open before you, — 
No remedy potent enough to restore you? 

Prince Henry. None whatever ! 

Lucifer. The dead are dead, 

And their oracles dumb, when questioned 
Of the new diseases that human life 
Evolves in its progress, rank and rife. 
Consult the dead upon things that were, 
But the living only on things that are. 
Have you done this, by the appliance 
And aid of doctors ? 

Prince Henry. Ay, whole schools 

Of doctors, with their learned rules ; 
But the case is quite beyond their science. 
Even the doctors of Salern 
Send me back word they can discern 
No cure for a malady like this, 
Save one which in its nature is 
Impossible, and cannot be ! 

Lucifer. That sounds oracular! 

Prince Henry. Unendurable I 

Lucifer. What is then* remedy ? 

Prince Henry. You shall see; 

Writ in this scroll is the mystery. 

Lucifer {reading). "Not to be cured, yet not incurable! 
The only remedy that remains 
Is the blood that flows from a maiden's veins,, 
Who of her own free will shall die, 
And give her life as the price of yours ! " 
That is the strangest of all cures, 
And one, I think, you will never try ; 
The prescription you may well put by, 
As something impossible to find. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 205 

Before the world itself shall end ! 

And yet who knows ? One cannot say 

That into some maiden's brain that kind 

Of madness will not find its way. 

Meanwhile permit me to recommend, 

As the matter admits of no delay, 

My wonderful Catholicon, 

Of very subtile and magical powers. 
Prince Henri/. Purge with your nostrums and drugs infernal 

The spouts and gargoyles of these towers, 

Not me ! My faith is utterly gone 

In every power but the Power Supernal! 

Pray tell me, of what school are you ? 
Lucifer. Both of the Old and of the New ! 

The school of Hermes Trismegistus, 

"Who uttered his oracles sublime 

Before the Olympiads, in the dew 

Of the early dawn and dusk of Time, 

The reign of dateless old Hephaestus ! 

As northward, from its Nubian springs, 

The Nile, for ever new and old, 

Among the living and the dead, 

Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled; 

So, starting from its fountain-head 

Under the lotas-leaves of Isis, 

From the dead demigods of eld, 

Through long, unbroken lines of kings 

Its course the sacred art has held, 

Unchecked, unchanged by man's devices. 

This art the Arabian Geber taught, 

And in alembics, finely wrought, 

Distilling herbs and flowers, discovered 

The secret that so long had hovered 

Upon the misty verge of Truth, 

The Elixir of Perpetual Youth, 

Called Alcohol, in the Arab speech ! 

Like him, this wondrous lore I teach! 
Prince Henry. What ! an adept ? 
Lucifer. Nor less, nor more ! 

" Prince Henry. I am a reader of your books, 

A lover of that mystic lore ! 

"With such a piereiog glance it looks 

Into great Nature's open eye, 

And sees within it trembling lie 

The portrait of the Deity J 

And yet, alas ! with all my pains, 

The secret and the mystery 

Have baffled and eluded me, 

Unseen the grand result remains J 



206 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Lucifer (showing aflasJc). Behold it here ! this little flask 

Contains the wonderful quintessence, 

The perfect flower and efflorescence, 

Of all the knowledge man can ask ! 

Hold it up thus against the light ! 
Prince Henry. How limpid, pure, and crystalline, 

How quick, and tremulous, and bright, 

The little wavelets dance and shine, . 

As were it the Water of Life in sooth ! 
Lucifer. It is ! It assuages every pain, 

Cures all disease, and gives again 

To age the swift delights of youth. 

Inhale its fragrance. 
Prince Henry. It is sweet. 

A thousand different odours meet 

And mingle in its rare perfume, 

Such as the winds of summer waft 

At open windows through a room ! 

Lucifer. Will you not taste it ? 
Prince Henry. Will one draught 

Suffice? 
Lucifer. If not, you can drink more. 
Prince Henry. Into this crystal goblet pour 

So much as safely I may drink. 
Lucifer (pouring). Let not the quantity alarm you; 

You may drink all; it will not harm you. 
Prince Henry. I am as one who on the brink 

Of a dark river stands and sees 

The waters flow, the landscape dim 

Around him waver, wheel, and swim, 

And, ere he plunges, stops to think 

Into what whirlpools he may sink; 

One moment pauses, and no more, 

Then madly plunges from the shore ! 

Headlong into the mysteries 

Of life and death I boldly leap, 

Nor fear the fateful current's sweep, 

Nor what in ambush lurks below ! 

For death is better than disease ! 

An Angel with an ceolian harp hovers in the air. 

Angel. Woe ! woe ! eternal woe ! 
Not only the whispered prayer 
Of love, 

But the imprecations of hate, 
Reverberate 

For ever and ever through the air 
Above 1 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 207 

This fearful curse 

Shakes the great universe ! 
Lucifer (disappearing). Drink ! drink ! 

And thy soul shall sink 

Down into the dark abyss, 

Into the infinite abyss, 

From which no plummet nor rope 

Ever drew up the silver sand of hope ! 
Prince Henry (drinking). It is like a draught of fire! 

Through every vein 

I feel again 

The fever of youth, the soft desire; 

A rapture that is almost pain 

Throbs in my heart and fills my brain ! 

joy! Ojoy! I feel 
The band of steel 

That so long and heavily has pressed 

Upon my breast 

Uplif ted, and the malediction 

Of my affliction 

Is taken from me, and my weary breast 

At length finds rest. 
The Angel. It is but the rest of the fire, from which the air has 
been taken ! 

It is but the rest of the sand, when the hour-glass is not 
shaken ! 

It is but the rest of the tide between the ebb and the flow ! 

It is but the rest of the wind between the flaws that blow ! 

"With fiendish laughter, 

Hereafter, 

This false physician 

'Will mock thee in thy perdition. 
Prince Henry. Speak! speak! 

Who says that I am ill ? 

1 am not ill ! I am not weak ! 

The trance, the swoon, the dream, is o'er i 

I feel the chill of death no more ! 

At length, 

I stand renewed in all my strength ! 

Beneath me I can feel 

The great earth stagger and reel, 

As if the feet of a descending God 

Upon its surface trod, 

And like a pebble it rolled beneath his heel ! 

This, brave physician ! this 

Is thy great Palingenesis. 

Diinlcs again. 

The Angel. Touch the goblet no more! 



208 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

It will make thy heart sore 
To its very core ! 
Its perfume is the breath 
Of the Angel of Death, 
And the light that within it lies 
Is the flash of his evil eyes. 
Beware ! 0, beware ! 
For sickness, sorrow, and care, 
All are there ! 
Prince Henry (sinking hade). thou voice within my breafct \ 
Why entreat me, why upbraid me, 
When the steadfast tongues of truth 
And the flattering hopes of youth 
Have all deceived me and betrayed me? 
Give me, give me rest, 0, rest ! 
Golden visions wave and hover, 
Golden vapours, waters streaming, 
Landscapes moving, changing, gleaming! 
I am like a happy lover 
Who illumines life with dreaming ! 
Brave physician ! Rare physician ! 
Well hast thou fulfilled thy mission ! 

His head falls on Ms boo7c. 

The Angel (receding). Alas ! alas ! 
Like a vapour the golden vision 
Shall fade and pass ; 
And thou wilt find in thy heart again 
Only the blight of pain, 
And bitter, bitter, bitter contrition ! 

Court-yard of the Castle, Hubert standing by the gateway 
Hubert. How sad the grand old castle looks ! 

O'erhead the unmolested rooks 

Upon the turret's windy top 

Sit, talking of the farmer's crop ; 

Here in the court-yard springs the grafts, 

So few are now the feet that pass ; 

The stately peacocks, bolder grown, 

Come hopping down the steps of stone, 

As if the castle were their own; 

And I, the poor old seneschal, 

Haunt, like a ghost, the banquet-halL 

Alas ! the merry guests no more 

Crowd through the hospitable door ; 

No eyes with youth and passion shine, 

No cheeks grow redder than the wine ; 

No song, no laugh, no jovial din 

Of drinking wassail to the pin ; 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 209 

But all is silent, sad, and drear, 
And now the only sounds I hear 
Are the hoarse rooks upon the walls; 
And horses stamping in their stalls ! 

A horn sounds. 

What ho ! that merry, sudden blast 
Reminds me of the days long past ! 
And, as of old resounding, grate 
The heavy hinges of the gate, 
And, clattering loud, with iron clank, 
Down goes the sounding bridge of plank, 
As if it were in haste to greet 
The pressure of a traveller's feet ! 

Enter "Walter, the Minnesinger. 
Walter. How now, my friend ! This looks quite lonely! 

No banner flying from the walls, 

No pages and no seneschals, 

No warders, and one porter only ! 

Is it you, Hubert ? 
Hubert. Ah ! Master Walter ! 
Walter. Alas ! how forms and faces alter ! 
- I did not know you. You look older ! 

Your hair has grown much grayer and thinner. 

And you stoop a little in the shoulder ! 
Hubert. Alack ! I am a poor old sinner, 

And, like these towers, begin to moulder; 

And you have been absent many a year ! 
Walter. How is the Prince ? 
Hubert. He is not here; 

He has been ill : and now has fled. 
Walter. Speak it out frankly; say he's dead! 

Is it not so ? 
Hubert. No; if you please; 

A strange, mysterious disease 

Fell on him with a sudden blight. 

Whole hours together he would stand 

Upon the terrace in a dream. 

Resting his head upon his hand, 

Best pleased when he was most alone, 

Like Saint John Nepomuck in stone, 

Looking down into a stream. 

In the Round Tower, night after night, 

He sat, and bleared his eyes with books ; 

Until one morning we found him there 

Stretched on the floor as if in a swoon 

He had fallen from his chair. 

We hardly recognised his sweet looks 



210 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Walter. Poor Prince ! 

Hubert I think he might have mended ; 

And he did mend ; but very soon 
The Priests came nocking in, like rooks, 
With all their crosiers and their crooks, 
And so at last the matter ended. 

Waliei\ How did it end ? 

Hubert. Why, in Saint Rochus 

They made him stand, and wait his doom ; 
And, as if he were condemned to the tomb, 
Began to mutter their hocus-pocus. 
First, the Mass for the Dead they chaunted, 
Then three times laid upon his head 
A shovelful of churchyard clay, 
Saying to him, as he stood undaunted, 
" This is a sign that thou art dead, 
So in thy heart be penitent ! " 
And forth from the chapel door he wenfc 
Into disgrace and banishment, 
Clothed in a cloak of hodden gray, 
And bearing a wallet, and a bell, 
Whose sound should be a perpetual knell 
To keep all travellers away. 

Walter. 0, horrible fate ! Outcast, rejected, 
As one with pestilence infected ! 

Hubert. Then was the family tomb unsealed, 
And broken helmet, sword and shield, 
Buried together, in common wreck, 
As is the custom, when the last 
Of any princely house has passed, 
And thrice, as with a trumpet-blast, 
A herald shouted down the stair 
The words of warning and despair, — 
" Hoheneck ! Hoheneck ! " 

Walter. Still in my soul that cry goes on, — - 
For ever gone ! for ever gone ! 
Ah, what a cruel sense of loss, 
Like a black shadow, would fall across 
The hearts of all, if he should die ! 
His gracious presence upon earth 
Was as a fire upon a hearth ; 
As pleasant songs, at morning sung, 
The words that dropped from his sweet tongue 
Strengthened our hearts; or, heard at night, 
Made all our slumbers soft and light. 
Where is he ? 

Hubert. In the Odenwald. 

Some of his tenants, unappalled 
By fear of death, or priestly word, — 



THE G0U3EN LEGEND. 211 

A holy family, that make 
Each meal a Supper of the Lord, — 
Have him beneath their watch and ward., 
For love of him, and Jesus' sake ! 
Pray you come in. For why should I 
With out-door hospitality 
My prince's friend thus entertain ? 
Walter. I would a moment here remain. 
But you, good Hubert, go before, 
Fill me a goblet of May-drink, 
As aromatic as the May 
From which it steals the breath away, 
And which he loved so well of yore ; 
It is of him that I would think. 
You shall attend me, when I call, 
In the ancestral banquet-hall. 
Unseen companions, guests of air, 
You cannot wait on, will be there ; 
They taste not food, they drink not wine, 
But their soft eyes look into mine, 
And their lips speak to me, and all 
The vast and shadowy banquet hall 
Is full of looks and words divine ! 

Leaning over the parapet. 

The day is done; and. slowly from the scene 

The stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, 

And puts them back into his golden quiver! 

Below me in the valley, deep and green 

As goblets are, from which in thirsty draughts 

We drink its wine, the swift and mantling river 

Flows on triumphant through these lovely regions, 

Etched with the shadows of its sombre margent, 

And soft, reflected clouds of gold and argent ! 

Yes, there it flows, for ever, broad and still, 

As when the vanguard of the Roman legions 

First saw it from the top of yonder hill ! 

How beautiful it is ! Fresh fields of wheat, 

Vineyard, and town, and tower with fluttering flag, 

The consecrated chapel on the crag, 

And the white hamlet gathered round its base, 

Like Mary sitting at her Saviour's feet. 

And looking up at his beloved face ! 

friend ! best of friends ! Thy absence more 

Than the impending night darkens the landscape o'er ! 



212 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



II. 



A Farm in the Odenwald; a garden; morning; Peince Henitc 
seated, with a booh Elsie at a distance, gathering floicers. 

Prince Henry (reading). One morning, all alone. 
Out of his convent of gray stone, 
Into the forest older, darker, grayer, 
His lips moving as if in prayer, 
His head sunken upon his breast 
As in a dream of rest, 
Walked the Monk Felix. All about 
The broad, sweet sunshine lay without, 
Filling the summer air; 
And within the woodlands as he trod, 
The twilight was like the Truce of God 
With worldly woe and care ; 
Under him lay the golden moss; 
And above him the boughs of hemlock trees 
Waved, and made the sign of the cross. 
And whispered their Benedicites ; 
And from the ground 
Rose an odour sweet and fragrant 
Of the wild flowers and the vagrant 
Vines that Wandered, 
Seeking the sunshine, round and round. 

These he heeded not, but pondered 

On the volume in his hand, 

A volume of Saint Augustine, 

Wherein he read of the unseen 

Splendours of God's great town 

In the unknown land, 

And, with his eyes cast down 

In humility, he said : 

"I believe, O God, 

What herein I have read, 

But alas! I do not understand! " 

And lo ! he heard 

The sudden singing of a bird, 

A snow-white bird, that from a cloud 

Dropped down, 

And among the branches brown 

Sat singing 

So sweet, and clear, and loud, 

It seemed a thousand harp-strings ringing, 

And the Monk Felix closed his book, 

And long, long, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

With rapturous look, 
He listened to the song, 
And hardly breathed or stirred, 
Until he saw, as in a vision, 
The land Elysian, 
And in the heavenly city heard 
Angelic feet 

Fall on the golden flagging of the street. 
And he would fain 
Have caught the wondrous bird, 
But strove in vain ; 
For it flew away, away, 
Far over hill and dell, 
And instead of its sweet singing, 
He heard the convent bell 
, Suddenly in the silence ringing, 
For the service of noonday. 
And he retraced 
His pathway homeward sadly and in hasta 

In the convent there was a change ! 
He looked for each well-known face, 
But the faces were new and strange ; 
New figures sat in the oaken stalls, 
New voices chaunted in the choir; 
Yet the place was the same place, 
The same dusky walls 
Of cold, gray stone, 
The same cloisters and belfry and spire. 

A stranger and alone 

Among that brotherhood 

The Monk Felix stood. 

" Forty years," said a Friar, 

" Have I been Prior 

Of this convent in the wood, 

But for that space 

Never have I beheld thy face ! " 

The heart of the Monk Felix fell : 

And he answered, with submissive tone, 

u This morning, after the hour of Prime, 

I left my cell, 

And wandered forth alone, 

Listening all the time 

To the melodious singing 

Of a beautiful white bird, 

Until I heard 

The bells of the convent ringing 



213 









214 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Noon from their noisy towers. 
It was as if I dreamed; 
For what to me had seemed 
Moments only, had been hours ! " 

" Years ! " said a voice close by. 

It was an aged monk who spoke, 

From a bench of oak 

Fastened against the wall ; — 

He was the oldest monk of all. 

For a whole century 

Had he been there, 

Serving God in prayer, 

The meekest and humblest of his creatures. 

He remembered well the features 

Of Felix, and he said, 

Speaking distinct and slow : 

" One hundred years ago, 

When I was a novice in this place, 

There was here a monk, full of God's grace, 

Who bore the name 

Of Felix, and this man must be the same." 

And straightway 

They brought forth to the light of day 
A volume old and brown, 
A huge tome, bound 
In brass and wild-boar's hide, 
Wherein were written down 
The names of all who had died 
In the convent, since it was edified. 
And there they found, 
Just as the old monk said, 
That on a certain day and date, 
One hundred years before, 
Had gone forth from the convent gate 
- The Monk Felix, and never more 
Had entered that sacred door. 
He had been counted among the dead! 
And they knew, at last, 
That, such had been the power 
Of that celestial and immortal song, 
A hundred years had passed, 
And had not seemed so long 
As a single hour ! 

Elsie comes in with floivers. 
Elsie. Here are flowers for you, 
But they are not all for you. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 215 

Some of them are for the virgin 

And for Saint Cecilia. 
Prince Henry. As thou standest there, 

Thou seemest to me like the angel 

That brought the immortal roses 

To Saint Cecilia's bridal chamber. 
Elsie. But these will fade. 
Prince Henry. Themselves will fade. 

But not their memory, 

And memory has the power 

To re-create them from the dust 

They remind me, too, 

Of martyred Dorothea, 

Who from celestial gardens sent 

Flowers as her witnesses 

To him who scoffed and doubted. 
Elsie. Do you know the story 

Of Christ and the Sultan's daughter ? 

That is the prettiest legend of them alL 
Prince Henry. Then tell it to me. 

But first come hither. 

Lay the flowers down beside me. 

And put both thy hands in mine. 

Now tell me the story. 
Elsie. Early in the morning 

The Sultan's daughter 

Walked in her father's garden, 

Gathering the bright flowers, 

All full of dew. 
Prince Henry. Just as thou hast been doing 

This morning, dearest Elsie. 
Elsie. And as she gathered them, 

She wondered more and more * 

Who was the Master of the Flowers, 

And made them grow 

Out of the cold, dark earth. 

" In my heart," she said, 

" I love him ; and for him 

Would leave my father's palace. 

To labour in his garden." 
Prince Henry. Dear, innocent child! 

How sweetly thou recallest 

The long-forgotten legend, 

That in my early childhood 

My mother told me ! 

Upon my brain 

It reappears once more, 

As a birth-mark on the forehead 





216 THE GOLDEN LEGEOT). 

When a hand suddenly 

Is laid upon it, and removed ! 
Elsie. And at midnight, 

As she lay upon her bed, 

She heard a voice 

Call to her from the garden, 

And, looking forth from her window, 

She saw a beautiful youth 

Standing among the flowers. 

It was the Lord Jesus ; 

And she went down to him, 

And opened the door for him ; 

And he said to her, " maiden ! 

Thou hast thought of me with love, 

And for thy sake 

Out of my Father's kingdom 

Have I come hither : 

I am the Master of the Flowers. 

My garden is in Paradise, 

And if thou wilt go with me, 

Thy bridal garland 

Shall be of bright red flowers." 

And then he took from his finger 

A golden ring, 

And asked the Sultan's daughter 

If she would be his bride. 

And when she answered him with love, 

His wounds began to bleed, 

And she said to him, 

" Love ! how red thy heart is, 

And thy hands are full of roses." 

" For thy sake," answered he, 

" For thy sake is my heart so red, 

For thee I bring these roses. 

I gathered them at the cross 

Whereon I died for thee ! 

Come, for my Father calls. 

Thou art my elected bride ! " 

And the Sultan's daughter 

Followed him to his Father's garden. 
Prince Henry. Wouldst thou have done so, Elsie? 
Elsie. Yes, very gladly. 
Prince Henry. Then the Celestial Bridegroom 

Will come for thee also. 

Upon thy forehead he will place, 

Not his crown of thorns, 

But a crown of roses. 

In thy bridal chamber, 

Like Saint Cecilia, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 217 

Thou shalt hear sweet music, 
And breathe the fragrance 
Of flowers immortal ! 
Go now and place these flowers 
Before her picture. 

A Room in the Farm-house. Twilight. Ursula spinning. 
Gottlieb asleep in his chair. 
Ursula. Darker and darker ! Hardly a glimmer 
Of light comes in at the window-pane; 
Or is it my eye3 are growing dimmer ? 
I cannot disentangle this skein, 
Nor wind it rightly upon the reel. 
Elsie! 
Gottlieb (starting). The stopping of thy wheel 
Has wakened me out of a pleasant dream. 
I thought I was sitting beside a stream, 
And heard the grinding of a mill, 
When suddenly the wheels stood still 
And a voice cried " Elsie " in my ear ! 
It startled me, it seemed so near. 
Ursula. I was calling her : I want a light. 
I cannot see to spin my flax. 
Bring the lamp, Elsie. Dost thou hear? 
Elsie (within). In a moment. 

Gottlieb. Where are Bertha and Max ? 

Ursula. They are sitting with Elsie at the door. 
She is telling them stories of the wood, 
And the Wolf, and Little Red Ridinghood. 
Gottlieb. And where is the Prince? 
Ursula. In his room overhead; 

I heard him walking across the floor, 
As he always does, with a heavy tread. 

Elsie comes in with a lamp. Max and Bertha follow her; and 
they all sing the Evening Song on the lighting of the lamps. 

evening song. 
O gladsome light 
Of the Father Immortal, 
And of the celestial 
Sacred and blessed 
Jesus, our Saviour! 

Now to the sunset 
Again hast thou brought us; 
And, seeing the evening 
Twilight, we bless thee, 
Praise thee, adore thee ! 



218 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Father omnipotent ! 
Son, the Life-giver! 
Spirit, the Comforter I 
Worthy at all times 
Of worship and wonder ! 

Prince Henry {at the door). Amen ! 

Ursula. Who was it said Amen? 

Elsie. It was the Prince : he stood at the door, 

And listened a moment, as we chaunted 

The evening song. He is gone again. 

I have often seen him there before. 
Ursula. Poor Prince ! 
Gottlieb. I thought the house was haunted ! 

Poor Prince, alas ! and yet as mild 

And patient as the gentlest child ! 
Max. I love him because he is so good, 

And makes me such fine bows and arrows, 

To shoot «o the robins and the sparrows. 

And the red squirrels in the wood ! 
Bertha. I love him, too i 
Gottlieb. Ah, yes ! we all 

Love him, from the bottom of our hearts; 

He gave us the farm, the house, and the grange, 

He gave us the horses and the carts, 

And the great oxen in the stall, 

The vineyard, and the forest range ! 

We have nothing to give him but our love ! 
Bertha. Did he give us the beautiful stork above 

On the chimney -top, with its large, round nest? 
Gottlieb. No, not the stork ; by God in heaven, 

As a blessing, the dear white stork was given; 

But the Prince has given us all the rest. 

God bless him, and make him well again. 
Elsie. Would I could do something for his sake, 

Something to cure his sorrow and pain ! 
Gottlieb. That no one can; neither thou nor I, 

Nor any one else. 
, Elsie. And must he die ? 

Ursula. Yes; if the dear God does not take 

Pity upon him, in his distress, 

And work a miracle ! 
Gottlieb. Or unless 

Some maiden, of her own accord, 

Offers her life for that of her lord, 

And is willing to die in his stead. 
Elsie. I will ! 

Ursula. Prithee, thou foolish child, be still ! 

Thou shouldst not say what thou dost not mean ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 219 

Elsie. I mean it truly ! 

Max. father, this morning, 

Down by the mill, in the ravine, 

Hans killed a wolf, the very same 

That in the night to the sheepfold came, 

And ate up my lamb, that was left outside. 
Gottlieb. I am glad he is dead. It will be a warning 

To the wolves in the forest, far and wide. 
Max. And I am going to have his hide ! 
Bertha. I wonder if this is the wolf that ate 

Little Red Ridinghood ! 
Ursula. 0, no ! 

That wolf was killed a long while ago. 

Come, children, it is growing late. 
Max. Ah, how I wish I were a man, 

As stout as Hans is, and as strong : 

I woidd do nothing else the whole day long, 

But just kill wolves. 
Gottlieb. Then go to bed, 

And grow as fast as a little boy can. 

Bertha is half asleep already. 

See, how she nods her heavy head, 

And her sleepy feet are so unsteady 

She will hardly be able to creep up-stairs. 
Ursula. Good night, my children. Here 's the light 

And do not forget to say your prayers 

Before you sleep. 
Gottlieb. Good night ! 

Max and Bertha. Good night ! 

They go out with Elsie. 

Ursula {spinning). She is a strange and wayward childj 

That Elsie of ours. She looks so old, 

And thoughts and fancies, weird and wild, 

Seem of late to have taken hold 

Of her heart, that was once so docile and mild 1 
Gottlieb. She is like all girls. 
Ursula. Ah, no, forsooth I 

Unlike all I have ever seen. 

For she has visions and strange dreams, 

And in all her words and ways, she seems 

Much older than she is in truth. 

Who would think her but fourteen? 

And there has been of late such a change ! 

My heart is heavy with fear and doubt 

That she may not live till the year is out. 

She is so strange,— so strange,— so strange! 
Gottlieb. I am not troubled with any such fear; 

She will live and thrive for many a year, 



220 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Elsie's Chamber. Night. Elsie praying. 

Elsie, My Redeemer and my Lord, 
I beseech thee, I entreat thee, 
Guide me in each act and word, 
That hereafter I may meet thee, 
Watching, waiting, hoping, yearning, 
With my lamp well trimmed and burning I 

Interceding, 

With these bleeding 

Wounds upon thy hands and side. 

For all who have lived and erred 

Thou hast suffered, thou hast died, 

Scourged, and mocked, and crucified, 

And in the grave hast thou been buried 1 

If my feeble prayer can reach thee, 

my Saviour, I beseech thee, 
Even as thou hast died for me, 
More sincerely 

Let me follow where thou leadest, 

Let me, bleeding as thou bleedest, 

Die, if dying I may give 

Life to one who asks to live, 

And more nearly, 

Dying thus, resemble thee ! 

The Chamber of Gottlieb and Ursula. Midnight. Elsie 

standing by their bedside, weeping. 
Gottlieb. The wind is roaring; the rushing rain 

Is loud upon roof and window-pane, 

As if the Wild Huntsman of Rodenstein, 

Boding evil to me and mine, 

Were abroad to-night with his ghostly train ! 

In the brief lulls of the tempest wild, 

The dogs howl in the yard; and hark! 

Some one is sobbing in the dark, 

Here in the chamber ! 
Elsie. It is I. 

Ursula. Elsie! what ails thee, my poor child? 
Elsie. I am disturbed and much distressed, 

In thinking our dear Prince must die ; 

1 cannot close mine eyes, nor rest. 

Gottlieb. What wouldst thou ? In the Power Divine 

His healing lies, not in our own; 

It is in the hand of God alone. 
Elsie. Nay, he has put it into mine, 

And into my heart ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 221 

Gottlieb. Thy words are wild ! 

Ursula. What dost thou mean ? my child ! my child ! 
Elsie. That for our dear Prince Henry's sake 

I will myself the offering make, 

And give my life to purchase his. 
Ursula. Am I still dreaming, or awake? 

Thou.speakest carelessly of death, 

And yet thou knowest not what it is. 
Elsie. 'Tis the cessation of our breath. 

Silent and motionless we lie: 

And no one knoweth more than this. 

I saw our little Gertrude die; 

She left off breathing, and no more 

I smoothed the pillow beneath her head. 

She was more beautiful than before: 

Like violets faded were her eyes; 

By this we knew that she was dead. 

Through the open window looked the skies 

Into the chamber where she lay, 

And the wind was like the sound of wings, 

As if angels came to bear her away. 

Ah ! when I saw and felt these things, 

I found it difficult to stay; 

I longed to die, as she had died, 

And go forth with her, side by side. 

The Saints are dead, the Martyrs deacL 

And Mary, and our Lord; and I 

Would follow in humility 

The way by them illumined ! 
Ursula. My child ! my child ! thou must not die f 
Elsie. Why should I live ? Do I not know 

The life of woman is full of woe ! 

Toiling on and on and on, 

With breaking heart, and tearful eyes, 

And silent lips, and in the soul 

The secret longings that arise, 

Which this world never satisfies ! 

Some more, some less, but of the whole 

Not one quite happy, no, not one ! 
Ursula. It is the malediction of Eve ! 
Elsie. In place of it, let me receive 

The benediction of Mary, then. 
Gottlieb. Ah ! woe is me ! Ah, woe is me ! 

Most wretched am I among men ! 
Ursula. Alas ! that I should live to see 

Thy death, beloved, and to Gcand 

Above thy grave ! Ah, woe the day ! 
Elsie. Thou wilt not see it. I shall lie 

Beneath the flowers of another land: 



222 THE GOLDEN" LEGEND. 

For at Salerno, far away- 
Over the mountains, over the sea, 
It is appointed me to die ! 
And it will seem no more to thee 
Than if at the village on market-day 
I should a little longer stay 
Than I am used. 

Ursula, Even as thou sayest! 

And how my heart beats when thou stayest I 
I cannot rest until my sight 
Is satisfied with seeing thee. 
What, then, if thou wert dead? 

Gottlieb. Ah me 1 

Of our old eyes thou art the light ! 
The joy of our old hearts art thou ! 
And wilt thou die? 

Ursula. Not now ! not now ! 

Elsie. Christ died for me, and shall not I 
Be willing for my Prince to die ? 
You both are silent; you cannot speak. 
This said I, at our Saviour's feast, 
After confession, to the priest, 
And even he made no reply. 
Does he not warn us all to seek 
The happier, better land on high, 
Where flowers immortal never wither; 
And could he forbid me to go thither? 

Gottlieb. In God's own time, my heart's delight ! 
When he shall call thee, not before ! 

Elsie. I heard him call. When Christ ascended 
Triumphantly, from star to star, 
He left the gates of heaven a-jar. 
I had a vision in the night, 
And saw him standing at the door 
Of his Father's mansion, vast and splendid, 
And beckoning to me from afar. 
I cannot stay! 

Gottlieb. She speaks almost 

As if it were the Holy Ghost 
Spake through her lips, and in her stead ! 
What if this were of God? 

Ursula. Ah, then 

Gainsay it dare we not. 

Gottlieb. " Amen ! 

Elsie ! the words that thou hast said 
Are strange and new for us to hear, 
And fill our hearts with doubt and fear. 
Whether it be a dark temptation 
Of the Evil One, or God's inspiration, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 223 

We in our blindness cannot say. 
"We must think upon it, and pray; 
For evil and good it both resembles. 
If it be of God, his will be done ! 
May he guard us from the evil one ! 
How hot thy hand is ! how it trembles ! 
Go to thy bed, and try to sleep. 
Urmia. Kiss me. Good night; and do not weep ! 

Elsie goes out. 

Ah, what an awful thing is this ! 

I almost shuddered at her kiss, 

As if a ghost had touched my cheek, 

I am so childish and so weak ! 

As soon as I see the earliest gray 

Of morning glimmer in the east, 

I will go over to the priest, 

And hear what the good man has to say ! 

A Village Church. A woman "kneeling at the confessional. 

The Paiish Priest (from within). Go, sin no more ! Thy 
penance o'er, 
A new and better life begin ! 
God maketh thee for ever free 
From the dominion of thy sin ! 
Go, sin no more ! He will restore 
The peace that filled thy heart before, 
And pardon thine iniquity ! 

The woman goes out. The priest comes forth, and tvalJcs slowly up 
and down the church. 

blessed Lord ! how much I need 
Thy light to guide me on my way ! 
So many hands, that, without heed, 

Still touch thy wounds, and make them bleed ! 
So many feet, that, day by day, 
Still wander from thy fold astray ! 
Unless thou fill me with thy light, 

1 cannot lead thy flock aright; 
Nor, without thy support, can bear 
The burden of so great a care, 
But am myself a castaway ! 

A pause. 

The day is drawing to its close; 
And what good deeds, since first it rose, 
Have I presented, Lord, to thee, 
As offerings of my ministry? 



224 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

What wrong repressed, what right maintained, 
"What struggle passed, what victory gained, 
What good attempted and attained ? 
Feeble, at best, is my endeavour ! 
I see, but cannot reach, the height 
That lies for ever in the light, 
And yet for ever and for ever, 
When seeming just within my grasp, 
I feel my feeble hands unclasp, 
And sink discouraged into night ! 
For thine own purpose, thou hast sent 
The strife and the discouragement ! 

A pause. 

Why stayest thou, Prince of Hoheneck ? 

Why keep me pacing to and fro 

Amid these aisles of sacred gloom, 

Counting my footsteps as I go, 

And marking with each step a tomb? 

Why should the world for thee make room, 

And wait thy leisure and thy beck? 

Thou comest in the hope to hear 

Some word of comfort and of cheer. 

What can I say? I cannot give 

The counsel to do this and live ; 

But rather, firmly to deny 

The tempter, though his power is strong, 

And, inaccessible to wrong, 

Still like a martyr live and die 1 

A pause. 

The evening air grows dusk and brown; 

I must go forth into the town, 

To visit beds of pain and death, 

Of restless limbs, and quivering breath, 

And sorrowing hearts, and patient eyes 

That see, through tears, the sun go down, 

But never more shall see it rise. 

The poor in body and estate, 

The sick and the disconsolate, 

Must not on man's convenience wait. 
Goes out. 
Enter Lucifer, as a Priest 
Lucifer (urith a genuflexion, mocking). This is the Black Pater- 
noster. 

God was my foster, 

He fostered me 

Under the book of the Palm-tree I 




E^""^l 



Underneath this mouldering tomb 

With statue of stone and Kcutchoon of brass. 

Slumbers a great lord of the vilJagu. 

Page 225. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

St Michael was my dame. 

He was born at Bethlehem, 

He was made of flesh and blood. 

God send me my right food, 

My right food, and shelter too, 

That I may to* yon kirk go, 

To read upon yon sweet book 

Which the mighty God of heaven shook. 

Open, open, hell's gates ! 

Shut, shut, heaven's gates ! 

All the devils in the air 

The stronger be, that hear the Black Prayer 1 

Looldng round the church. 

What a darksome and dismal place ! 

I wonder that any man has the face 

To call such a hole the house of the. Lord, 

And the Gate of Heaven, — yet such is the word. 

Ceiling, and walls, and windows old, 

Covered with cobwebs, blackened with mould; 

Dust on the pulpit, dust on the stairs, 

Dust on the benches, and stalls, and chairs ! 

The pulpit, from which such ponderous sermons 

Have fallen down on the brains of the Germans, 

With about as much real edification, 

As if a great Bible, bound in lead, 

Had fallen, and struck them on the head ; 

And I ought to remember that sensation ! 

Here stands the holy-water stoup ! 

Holy water it may be to many, 

But to me, the veriest Liquor Gehennse ! 

It smells like a filthy fast-day soup ! 

Near it stands the box for the poor ; 

With its iron padlock, safe and sure. 

I and the priest of the parish know 

Whither all these charities go ; 

Therefore, to keep up the institution, 

I will add my little contribution ! 

He puts in money. 

Underneath this mouldering tomb, 

With statue of stone, and scutcheon of brass, 

Slumbers a great lord of the village. 

All his life was riot and pillage, 

But at length, to escape the threatened doom 

Of the everlasting, penal fire, 

He died in the dress of a mendicant friar, 

And bartered his wealth for a daily mass. 

But all that afterwards came to pass, 



226 



226 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

And whether he finds it dull or pleasant, 
Is kept a secret for the present, 
At Ins own particular desire. 

And here, in a corner of the wall, 

Shadowy, silent, apart from all, 

With its awful portal open wide, 

And its latticed windows on either side, 

And its step well worn by the bended knees 

Of one or two pious centuries, 

Stands the village confessional ! 

Within it, as an honoured guest, 

I will sit me down awhile and rest ! 

Seats himself in the confessional. 

Here sits the priest ; and faint and low, 
Like the sighing of an evening breeze, 
Comes through these painted lattices 
The ceaseless sound of human woe ; 
Here, while her bosom aches and throbs 
With deep and agonizing sobs, 
That half are passion, half contrition, 
The luckless daughter of perdition 
Slowly confesses her secret shame ! 
The time, the place, the lover's name ! 
Here the grim murderer, with a groan, 
From his bruised conscience rolls the stone, 
Thinking that thus he can atone 
For ravages of sword and flame ! 
Indeed, I marvel, and marvel greatly, 
How a priest can sit here so sedately, 
Reading, the whole year out and in, 
Naught but the catalogue of sin, 
And still keep any faith whatever 
In human virtue ! Never ! never ! 

I cannot repeat a thousandth part 

Of the horrors and crimes and sins and woes 

That arise, when with palpitating throes 

The grave-yard in the human heart 

Gives up its dead, at the voice of the priest, 

As if he were an archangel, at least. 

It makes a peculiar atmosphere, 

This odour of earthly passions and crimes, 

Such as I like to breathe, at times, 

And such as often brings me here 

In the hottest and most pestilential season. 

To-day, I come for another reason ; 

To foster and ripen an evil thought 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 227 

In a heart that is almost to madness wrought, 
And to make a murderer out of a prince, 
A sleight of hand I learned long since ! 
He comes. In the twilight he will not see 
The difference between his priest and me ! 
In the same net was the mother caught ! 

Prince Henry {entering and kneeling at the confessional). 

Remorseful, penitent, and lowly, 

I come to crave, Father holy, 

Thy benediction on my head. 
Lucifer. The benediction shall be said 

After confession, not before ! 

'Tis a God-speed to the parting guest, 

Who stands already at the door, 

Sandalled with holiness, and dressed 

In garments pure from earthly stain. 

Meanwhile, hast thou searched well thy breast ? 

Does the same madness fill thy brain ? 

Or have thy passion and unrest 

Vanished for ever from thy mind ? 
Prince Henry. By the same madness still made blind, 

By the same passion still possessed, 

I come again to the house of prayer, 

A man afflicted and distressed ! 

As in a cloudy atmosphere, 

Through unseen sluices of the air, 

A sudden and impetuous wind 

Strikes the great forest white with fear, 

And every branch, and bough, and spray, 

Points all its quivering leaves one way, 

And meadows of grass, and fields of grain, 

And the clouds above, and the slanting rain, 

And smoke from chimneys of the town, 

Yield themselves to it, and bow down, 

So does this dreadful purpose press 

Onward, with irresistible stress, 

And all my thoughts and faculties, 

Struck level by the strength of this, 

From their true inclination turn, 

And all stream forward to Salern ! 
Lucifer. Alas ! we are but eddies of dust, 

Uplifted by the blast, and whirled 

Along the highway of the world 

A moment only, then to fall 

Back to a common level all, 

At the subsiding of the gust ! 
Prince Henry. holy Father ! pardon in me 

The oscillation of a mind 



228 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Unsteadfast, and that cannot find 
Its centre of rest and harmony ! 
For evermore before mine eyes 
This ghastly phantom flits and flies. 
And as a madman through a cloud, 
With frantic gestures and wild cries, 
It hurries onward, and aloud 
Repeats its awful prophecies ! 
Weakness is wretchedness ! To be strong 
Is to be happy ! I am weak, 
And cannot find the good I seek, 
Because I feel and fear the wrong ! 
Lucifer. Be not alarmed ! The Church is kind, 
And in her mercy and her meekness 
She meets half-way her children's weakness, 
Writes their transgressions in the dust ! 
Though in the Decalogue we find 
The mandate written, "Thou shalt not kill!'* 
Yet there are cases when we must. 
In war, for instance, or from scathe 
To guard and keep the one true Faith ! 
We must look at the Decalogue in the light 
Of an ancient statute, that was meant 
For a mild and general application, 
To be understood with the reservation, 
That, in certain instances, the Right 
Must yield to the Expedient ! 
Thou art a Prince. If thou shouldst die, 
What hearts and hopes would prostrate lie I 
What noble deeds, what fair renown, 
Into the grave with thee go down! 
What acts of valour and courtesy 
Remain undone, and die with thee ! 
Thou art the last of all thy race ! 
With thee a noble name expires, 
And vanishes from the earth's face 
The glorious memory of thy sires ! 
She is a peasant ! In her veins 
Flows common and plebeian blood; 
It is such as daily and hourly stains 
The dust and the turf of battle plains, 
By vassals shed in a crimson flood, 
Without reserve, and without reward, 
At the slightest summons of their lord! 
But thine is precious; the fore-appointed 
Blood of kings, of God's anointed! 
Moreover, what has the world in store, 
For one like her, but tears and toil? # 
Daughter of sorrow, serf of the soil, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 229 

A peasant's child and a peasant's wife, 

And her soul within her sick and sore 

With the roughness and barrenness of life ! 

I marvel not at the heart's recoil 

From a fate like this in one so tender, 

Nor at its eagerness to surrender 

All \he wretchedness, want, and woe 

That await it in this world below, 

For the unutterable splendour 

Of the world of rest beyond the skies. 

So the Church sanctions the sacrifice : 

Therefore inhale this healing balm, 

And breathe this fresh life into thine ; 

Accept the comfort and the calm 

She offers, as a gift divine ; 

Let her fall down and anoint thy feet 

With the ointment costly and most sweet 

Of her young blood, and thou shalt live. 
Prince Henry. And will the righteous Heaven forgive ? 

No action, whether foul or fair, 

Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere 

A record, written by fingers ghostly, 

As a blessing or a curse, and mostly 

In the greater weakness or greater strength 

Of the acts which follow it, till at length 

The wrongs of ages are redressed, 

And the justice of God made manifest! 
Lucifer. In ancient records it is stated 

That, whenever an evil deed is done, 

Another devil is created 

To scourge and torment the offending one ! 

But evil is only good perverted, 

And Lucifer, the Bearer of Light, 

But an angel fallen and deserted, 

Thrust from his Father's house with a curse 

Into the black and endless night. 
Prince Henry. If justice rules the universe, 

From the good actions of good men 

Angels of light should be forgotten, 

And thus the balance restored again. 
Lucifer. Yes ; if the world were not so rotten, 

And so given over to the Devil i 
Prince Henry. But this deed, is it good or evil? 

Have I thine absolution free 

To do it, and without restriction? 
Lucifer. Ay; and from whatsoever sin 

Lieth around it and within, 

From all crimes in which it may involve thee 

I now release thee and absolve thee 1 



230 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Prince Henry, Give me thy holy benediction. 

Lucifer (stretching forth his hand and muttering). 

Maledictione perpetua 
Maledicat vos 
Pater eternus! 

The Angel {with the ceolian harp). Take heed ! take heed ! 
Noble art thou in thy birth, 
By the good and the great of earth 
Hast thou been taught ! 
Be noble in every thought 
And in every deed! 
Let not the illusion of thy senses 
Betray thee to deadly offences. 
Be strong ! be good ! be pure ! 
The right only shall endure, 
All things else are but false pretences? 
I entreat thee, I implore, 
Listen no more 

To the suggestions of an evil spirit ! 
That even now is there, 
Making the foul seem fair, 
And selfishness itself a virtue and a merit ! 

A Boom in the Farm-House* 

Gottlieb. It is decided ! For many days, 

And nights as many, we have had 

A nameless terror in our breast, 

Making us timid, and afraid 

Of God, and His mysterious ways ! 

We have been sorrowful and sad; 

Much have we suffered, much have prayed 

That he would lead us as is best, 

And shew us what His will required. 

It is decided; and we give 

Our child, Prince, that you may live ! 
Ursula. It is of God. He has inspired 

This purpose in her; and through pain, 

Out of a world of sin and woe, 

He takes her to himself again. 

The mother's heart resists no longer; 

With the Angel of the Lord in vain 

It wrestled, for he was the stronger. 
Gottlieb. As Abraham offered long ago 

His son unto the Lord, and even 

The Everlasting Father in heaven 



THE GOLDEN" LEGEND. 231 

Gave his, as a lamb unto the slaughter, 
So do I offer up my daughter ! 

Ursula hides her face. 

Elsie. My life is little, 
Only a cup of water, 
But pure and limpid. 
Take it, my Prince ! 
Let it refresh you, 
Let it restore you, 
It is given willingly, 
It is given freely; 
May God bless the gift ! 
Prince Henry. And the giver ! 
Gottlieb. Amen ! 
Prince Henry. I accept it ! 
Gottlieb. Where are the children ? 
Ursula, They are already asleep. 
Gottlieb. What if they were dead ? 

In the Garden. 

Elsie. I have one thing to ask of you. 

Prince Henry. What is it ? 

It is already granted. 
Elsie. Promise me, 

When we are gone from here, and on our way 

Are journeying to Salerno, you will not, 

By word or deed, endeavour to dissuade me 

And turn me from my purpose; but remember 

That as a pilgrim to the Holy City 

Walks unmolested, and with thoughts of pardon 

Occupied wholly, so would I approach 

The gates of Heaven, in this great jubilee, 

With my petition, putting off from me 

All thoughts of earth, as shoes from off my feet. 

Promise me this. 
Prince Henry. Thy words fall from thy lips 

Like roses from the lips of Angelo; and angels 

Might stoop to pick them up ! 
Elsie. Will you not promise? 

Prince Henry. If ever we depart upon this journey, 

So long to one or both of us, I promise. 
Elsie. Shall we not go, then? Have you lifted me 

Into the air, only to hurl me back 

Wounded upon the ground? and offered me 

The waters of eternal life, to bid me 

Drink the polluted puddles of this world? 
Prince Henry. Elsie ! what a lesson thou dost teach me ! 

The life which is, and that which is to come, 



232 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Suspended hang in such nice equipoise, 

A breath disturbs the balance ; and that scale 

In which we throw our hearts preponderates, 

And the other, like an empty one, flies up, 

And is accounted vanity and air ! 

To me the thought of death is terrible, 

Having such hold on life. To thee it is not 

So much even as the lifting of a latch ; 

Only a step into the open air 

Out of a tent already luminous 

With light that shines through its transparent walls J 

pure in heart ! from thy sweet dust shall grow 

Lilies, upon whose petals will be written 

" Ave Maria " in characters of gold ! 



Ill 

A Street in Strasburg. Night. Prince Henry wandering alone, 
wrapped in a cloak. 

Prince Henry. Still is the night. The sound of feet 
Has died away from the empty street; 
And like an artizan, bending down 
His head on his anvil, the dark town 
Sleeps, with a slumber deep and sweet. 
Sleepless and restless, I alone, 
In the dusk and damp of these walls of stone, 
"Wander and weep in my remorse ! 

Crier of the Dead {ringing a bell). 

Wake ! wake ! 

All ye that sleep ! 

Pray for the Dead ! 

Pray for the Dead t 
Prince Henry. Hark ! with what accents loud and hoarse 
This warder on the walls of death 
Sends forth the challenge of his breath ! 
I see the dead that sleep in the grave ! 
They rise up and their garments wave, 
Dimly and spectral, as they rise, 
With the light of another world in their eyes ! 

Crier of the Dead, 
Wake ! wake ! 
All ye that sleep ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 
Prince Henry. Why for the dead, who are at rest ? 
Pray for the living, in whose breast 



THE GOLDEX LEGEND. 233 

The struggle between right and wrong 

Is raging terrible and strong, 

As when good angels war with devils ! 

This is the Master of the Revels, 

Who, at life's flowing feast, proposes 

The health of absent friends, and pledges, 

Not in bright goblets crowned with roses, 

And tinkling as we touch their edges, 

But with his dismal tinkling bell, 

That mocks and mimics their funeral knell I 

Crier of the Dead. 

Wake ! wake ! 

All ye that sleep ! 

Pray for the Dead ! 

Pray for the Dead ! 
Prince Henry. Wake not, beloved ! be thy sleep 
Silent as night is, and as deep ! 
There walks a sentinel at thy gate 
Whose heart is heavy and desolate, 
And the heavings of whose bosom number 
The respirations of thy slumber, 
As if some strange, mysterious fate, 
Had linked two hearts in one, and mine 
Went madly wheeling about thine, 
Only with wider and wider sweep ! 

Crier of the Dead {at a distance). 

Wake ! wake ! 

All ye that sleep ! 

Pray for the Dead ! 

Pray for the Dead ! 
Prince Henry. Lo ! with what depth of blackness thrown 
Against the clouds, far up the skies, 
The walls of the cathedral rise, 
Like a mysterious grove of stone, 
With fitful lights and shadows blending, 
As from behind, the moon, ascending, 
Lights its dim aisles and paths unknown ! 
The wind is rising ; but the boughs 
Rise not- and fall not with the wind 
That through their foliage sobs and soughs ; 
Only the cloudy rack behind, 
Drifting onward, wild and ragged, 
Gives to each spire and buttress jagged, 
A seeming motion undefined. 
Below on the square, an armed knight, 
Still as a statue and as white, 
Sits on his steed, and the moonbeams quiver 



234 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Upon the points of his armour bright 

As on the ripples of a river. 

He lifts the visor from his cheek, 

And beckons, and makes as he would speak. 
Walter (the Minnesinger). Friend ! can you tell me where alight 

Thuringia's horsemen for the night ? 

For I have lingered in the rear, 

And wandered vainly up and down. 
Prince Henry. I am a stranger in the town, 

As thou art ; but the voice I hear 

Is not a stranger to mine ear. 

Thou art Walter of the Vogelweid ! 
Walter. Thou hast guessed rightly ; and thy name 

Is Henry of Hoheneck ! 
Prince Henry. Ay, the same. 

Walter (embracing him). Come closer, closer to my side ! 

What brings thee hither ? What potent charm 

Has drawn thee from thy German farm 

Into the old Alsatian city ? 
Prince Henry. A tale of wonder and of pity ! 

A wretched man, almost by stealth 
• Dragging my body to Salern, 

In the vain hope and search for health, 

And destined never to return. 

Already thou hast heard the rest. 

But what brings thee, thus armed and dight 

In the equipments of a knight ? 
Walter. Dost thou not see upon my breast 

The cross of the Crusaders shine ? 

My pathway leads to Palestine. 
Prince Henry. Ah, would that way were also mine 1 

noble poet ! thou whose heart 
Is like a nest of singing-birds 
Rocked on the topmost bough of life, 
Wilt thou, too, from our sky depart, 
And in the clangor of the strife 
Mingle the music of thy words? 

Walter. My hopes are high, my heart is proud, 
And like a trumpet long and loud, 
Thither my thoughts all clank and ring ! 
My life is in my hand, and lo ! 

1 grasp and bend it as a bow, 

And shoot forth from its trembling string 
An arrow that shall be, perchance, 
Like the arrow of the Israelite king 
Shot from the window toward the east, 
That of the Lord's deliverance ! 
Prince Henry. My life, alas ! is what thou seest I 
enviable fate ! to be 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 235 

Strong, beautiful, and armed like thee 

With lyre and sword, with song and steel; 

A hand to smite, a heart to feel ! 

Thy heart, thy hand, thy lyre, thy sword, 

Thou givest all unto thy Lord; 

While I, so mean and abject grown, 

Am thinking of myself alone. 
Walter. Be patient; Time will reinstate 

Thy health and fortunes. 
Prince Henry. 'Tis too late ! 

I cannot strive against my fate ! 
Walter. Come with me; for my steed is weary; 

Our journey has been long and dreary, 

And, dreaming of his stall, he dints 

With his impatient hoofs the flints. 
Prince Henry (aside). I am ashamed, in my disgrace, 

To look into that noble face ! 

To-morrow, Walter, let it be. 
Walter. To-morrow, at the dawn of day, 

I shall again be on my way, 

Come with me to the hostelry, 

For I have many things to say. 

Our journey into Italy 

Perchance together we may make; 

Wilt thou not do it for my sake ? 
Prince Henry. A sick man's, pace would but impede 

Thine eager and impatient speed. 

Besides my pathway leads me round 

To Hirschau, in the forest's bound, 

Where I assemble man and steed, 

And all things for my journey's need. 

They go out, 

Lucifer (flying over the city). Sleep, sleep, city ! till the light* 
Wakes you to sin and crime again, 
Whilst on your dreams, like dismal rain, 
I scatter downward through the night 
My maledictions dark and deep. 
I have more martyrs in your walls 
Than God has; and they cannot sleep; 
They are my bondsmen and my thralls; 
Their wretched lives are full of pain, 
Wild agonies of nerve and brain ; 
And every heart-beat, every breath, 
Is a convulsion worse than death ! 
Sleep, sleep, city ! though within 
The circuit of your walls there lies 
No habitation free from sin, 
And all its nameless miseries; 



236 THE GOLDEN LEGEKD. 

The aching heart, the aching head, 
Grief for the living and the dead, 
And foul corruption of the time, 
Disease, distress, and want, and woe, 
And crimes, and passions that may grow 
Until they ripen into crime ! 



Square in front of the Cathedral. Easter Sunday. Friar 
Cuthbert 'preaching to the crowd from a pulpit in the open 
air. Prince Henry and Elsie crossing the square. 

Prince Henry. This is the day, when from the dead 

Our Lord arose; and everywhere, 

Out of their darkness and despair, 

Triumphant over fears and foes, 

The hearts of his disciples rose, 

When to the women, standing near, 

The angel in shining vesture said, 

"The Lord is risen; he is not here!" 

And, mindful that the day is come, 

On all the hearths in Christendom 

The fires are quenched, to be again 

Rekindled from the sun, that high 

Is dancing in the cloudless sky. 

The churches are all decked with flower, 1 ?, 

The salutations among men 

Are but the Angel's words divine, 

" Christ is arisen ! " and the bells 

Catch the glad murmur, as it swells, 

And chaunt together in their towers. 

All hearts are glad; and free from care 

The faces of the people shine. 

See what a crowd is in the square, 

Gaily and gallantly arrayed ! 
Elsie. Let us go back; I am afraid ! 
Prince Henry. Nay, let us mount the church-steps here, 

Under the door-way's sacred shadow; 

We can see all things, and be freer. 

From the crowd that madly heaves and presses ! 
Elsie. What a gay pageant ! what bright dresses ! 

It looks like a flower-besprinkled meadow. 

What is that yonder on the square? 
Prince Henry. A pulpit in the open air; 

And a Friar who is preaching to the crowd, 

In a voice so deep and clear and loud, 

That, if we listen, and give heed, 

His lowest words will reach the ear. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 237 

Friar CutJibert {gesticulating and cracking a postilion's lohip). 

What ho! <*ood people ! do you not hear? 

Dashing along at the top of his speed, 

Booted and spurred, on his jaded steed, 

A courier conies with words of cheer. 

Courier! what is the news, I pray? 

"Christ is arisen !" Whence come you? "From court." 

Then I do not believe it; you say it in sport. 

Cracks his whip again. 

Ah! here comes another, riding this way; 

We soon shall know what he has to say. 

Courier ! what are the tidings to-day? 

" Christ is arisen ! " Whence come you? "From town.*' 

Then I do not believe it; away with you, clown. 

Craclcs his ichip more violently. 

And here comes a third, who is spurring amain; 

What news do you bring with your loose-hanging rein, 

Your spurs wet with blood, and your bridle with foam? 

" Christ is arisen ! " Whence come you? "From Rome." 

Ah, now I believe. He is risen, indeed. 

Ride on with the news at the top of your speed ! 

Great applause among the croicd. 

To come back to my text ! When the news was first 

spread 
That Christ was arisen indeed from the dead, 
Very great was the joy of the angels in heaven; 
And as great the dispute as to who should carry 
The tidings thereof to the Virgin Mary, 
Pierced to the heart with sorrows seven. 
Old Father Adam was first to propose, 
As being the author of all our woes ; 
But he was refused, for fear, said they, 
He would stop to eat apples on the way ! 
Abel came next, but petitioned in vain, 
Because he might meet with his brother Cain ! 
Noah, too, was refused, lest his weakness for wine 
Should delay him at every tavern-sign ; 
And John the Baptist could not get a vote, 
On account of his old-fashioned, camel's-hair coat; 
And the Penitent Thief, who died on the cross, 
Was reminded that all his bones were broken ! 
Till at last, when each in turn had spoken, 
The company being still at a loss, 
• The Angel, who rolled away the stone. 
Was sent to the sepulchre, all alone,, 

Q 



238 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

And filled with glory that gloomy prison, 
And said to the Virgin, " The Lord is arisen ! w 

The Cathedral bells ring. 

But hark ! the bells are beginning to chime ; 

And I feel that I am growing hoarse. 

I will put an end to my discourse, 

And leave the rest for some other time. 

For the bells themselves are the best of preachers; 

Their brazen lips are learned teachers, 

From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air, 

Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, 

Shriller than trumpets under the Law, 

Now a sermon and now a prayer. 

The clangorous hammer is the tongue, 

This way, that way, beaten and swung, 

That from Mouth of Brass, as from Mouth of Gold 

May be taught the Testaments, New and Old. 

And above it the great cross-beam of wood 

Representeth the Holy Rood. 

Upon which, like the bell, our hopes are hung. 

And the wheel wherewith it is swayed and rung 

Is the mind of man, that round and round 

Sways, and maketh the tongue to sound! 

And the rope, with its twisted cordage three, 

Denoteth the Scriptural Trinity 

Of Morals, and Symbols, and History; 

And the upward and downward motions show 

That we touch upon matters high and low; 

And the constant change and transmutation 

Of action and of contemplation, 

Downward, the Scripture brought from on high, 

Upward, exalted again to the sky; 

Downward, the literal interpretation, 

Upward, the Vision and Mystery ! 

And now, my hearers, to make an end, 

I have only one word more to say; 

In the church, in honour of Easter-day, 

Will be represented a Miracle Play; 

And I hope you will all have the grace to attend, 

Christ bring us at last to his f elicity ! 

Pax vobiscum ! et Benedicite ! 

In the Cathedral. 

Chaunt. 
Kyrie Eleison! 
Christe Eleison! 



THE GOLDEX LEGEND. 239 

Elsie. I am at home here in my Father's house ! 

These paintings of the Saints upon the walls 

Have all familiar and benignant faces. 
Prince Henry. The portraits of the family of God! 

Thine own hereafter shall be placed among them. 
Elsie. How very grand it is and wonderful ! 

Never have I beheld a church so splendid ! 

Such columns, and such arches, and such windows, 

So many tombs and statues in the chapels, 

And under them so many confessionals. 

They must be for the rich. I should not like 

To tell my sins in such a church as this. 

Who built it? 
Prince Henry. A great master of his craft, 

Erwin von Steinbach; but not he alone, 

For many generations laboured with him. 

Children that came to see these Saints in stone, 

As day by day out of the blocks they rose, 

Grew old and died, and still the work went on, 

And on, and on, and is not yet completed. 

The generation that succeeds our own 

Perhaps may finish it. The architect 

Built his great heart into these sculptured stones, 

And with him toiled his children, and their lives 

Were builded, with his own, into the walls, 

As offerings unto God. You see that statue 

Fixing its joyous, but deep-wrinkled eyes 

Upon the Pillar of the Angels yonder. 

That is the image of the master, carved 

By the fair hand of his own child, Sabina. 
Elsie. How beautiful is the column that he looks at ! 
Prince Henry. That, too, she sculptured. At the base of it 

Stand the Evangelists : above their heads 

Four Angels blowing upon marble trumpets, 

And over them the blessed Christ, surrounded 

By his attendant ministers, upholding 

The instruments of his passion. 
Elsie. my Lord ! 

Would I could leave behind me upon earth 

Some monument to thy glory, such as this ! 
Prince Henry. A greater monament than this thou leavest 

In thine own life, all purity and love ! 

See, too, the Rose, above the western portal 

Flamboyant with a thousand gorgeous colours, 

The perfect flower of Gothic loveliness ! 
Elsie. And, in the gallery, the long line of statues, 

Christ with his twelve Apostles watching us. 

A Bishop in armour ', hooted and sparred* passes with his train. 



240 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Prince Henry. But come away; we have not time to look. 
The crowd already fills the church, and yonder 
Upon a stage, a herald with a trumpet, 
Clad like the Angel Gabriel, proclaims 
The Mystery that will now be represented. 



THE NATIVITY. 

A MIRACLE-PLAY. 



INTROITUS. 

Prceco. Come, good people, all and each, 
Come and listen to our speech ! 
In your presence here I stand, 
With a trumpet in my hand, 
To announce the Easter Play, 
Which we represent to-day ! 
First of all, we shall rehearse, 
In our action and our verse, 
The Nativity of our Lord, 
As written in the old record 
Of the Protevangelion, 
So that he who reads may run ! 
Blows a trumpet. 

I. HEAVEN. 

Mercy (at the feet of God). Have pity, Lord ! be not afraid 
To save mankind, whom thou hast made, 
Nor let the souls that were betrayed 
Perish eternally! 
Justice. It cannot be, it must not be ! 
When in the garden placed by thee, 
The fruit of the forbidden tree 
He ate, and he must die ! 
Mercy. Have pity, Lord ! let penitence 
Atone for disobedience, 
Nor let the fruit of man's offence 
Be endless misery! 
Justice. What penitence proportionate 
Can e'er be felt for sin so great? 
Of the forbidden fruit he ate, 
And damned must he be ! 
God. He shall be saved, if that within' 
The bounds of earth one free from sin 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 24] 

Be found, who for his kith and kin 
Will suffer martyrdom. 
The Four Virtues. Lord! we have searched the world 
around, 
From centre to the utmost bound, 
But no such mortal can be found ; 
Despairing, back we come. 
Wisdom. No mortal, but a God made man, 
Can ever carry out this plan, 
Achieving what none other cam 
Salvation unto all ! 
God. Go, then, my beloved Son ! 
It can by thee alone be done; 
By thee the victory shall be won 
O'er Satan and the Fall! 
Here the Angel Gabriel shall leave Paradise, and fly towards the 
earth; the jaws of Hell open below, and the Devils walk about^ 
making a great noise. 

II. MARY AT THE WELL. 

Mary. Along the garden walk, and thence 
Through the wicket in the garden fence. 

I steal with quiet pace, 
My pitcher at the well to fill, 
That lies so deep and cool and still 

In this sequestered place. 
These sycamores keep guard around; 
I see no face, I hear no sound, 

Save bubblings of the spring, 
And my companions, who within 
The threads of gold and scarlet spin, 

And at their labour sing. 
The Angel Gabriel. Hail, Virgin Mary, full of grace ! 

Here Mary looketh around her, trembling, and then saith : 

Mary. Who is it speaketh in this place, 

With such a gentle voice? 
Gabriel. The Lord of heaven is with thee now ! 
Blessed among all women thou, 
Who art his holy choice ! 
Mary (setting down the pitcher). What can this mean? 
No one is near, 
And yet such sacred words I hear, 
I almost fear to stay. 

Here the Angel, appearing to her, shall say; 

Gabriel. Fear not, Mary ! but believe ! 
For thou, a Virgin, shalt conceive 



242 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

A child this very day. 
Fear not, Mary ! from the sky 
The Majesty of the Most High 
Shall overshadow thee ! 
Mary. Behdld the handmaid of the Lord ! 
According to thy holy word, 
So be it unto me! 
Here the Devils shall again make a great noise wider the stage, 

III. THE ANGELS OF THE SEVEN PLANETS, BEARING THE 
STAR OE BETHLEHEM. 

The Angels. The Angels of the Planets Seven, 
Across the shining fields of heaven 

The natal star we bring ! 
Dropping our sevenfold virtues down, 
As priceless jewels in the crown 

Of Christ, our new-born King. 
Raphael. I am the Angel of the Sun, 
Whose flaming wheels began to run 

When God's almighty breath 
Said to the Darkness and the Night, 
Let there be light ! and there was light I 

I bring the gift of Faith. 
Gabriel. I am the Angel of the Moon, 
Darkened, to be rekindled soon 

Beneath the azure c©pe ! 
Nearest to earth, it is my ray 
That best illumes the midnight way. 

I bring the gift of Hope ! 
Anael. The Angel of the Star of Love, 
The Evening Star, that shines above 

The place where lovers be, 
Above all happy hearths and homes, 
On roofs of thatch, or golden domes. 

I give him Charity ! 
Zdbiachel. The Planet Jupiter is mine ! 
The mightiest star of all that shine, 

Except the sun alone ! 
He is the High Priest of the Dove, 
And sends, from his great throne above, 

Justice, that shall atone ! 
Michael. The Planet Mercury, whose place 
Is nearest to the sun in space, 

Is my allotted sphere ! 
And with celestial ardour swift 
I bear upon my hands the gift 

Of heavenly Prudence here! 

I am the Minister of Mars, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 24S 

The strongest star among the stars ! 

My songs of power prelude 
The march and battle of man's life, 
And for the suffering and the strife, 
I give him Fortitude ! 
Orifel. The Angel of the uttermost 
Of all the shining, heavenly host, 

From the far-off expanse 
Of the Saturnian, endless space, 
I bring the last, the crowning grace, 
The gift of Temperance ! 
A sudden light shines from the windows of the stable in the village 
below. 

IV. THE WISE MEN OF THE EAST. 

The Stable of the Inn. The Virgin and Child. Three Gipsy 
Kings, Gaspar, Melchior, and Belshazzar, shall come in. 
Gaspar. Hail to thee, Jesus of Nazareth, 

Though in a manger thou drawest thy breath, 
Thou art greater than Life and Death, 

Greater than Joy or Woe ! 
This cross upon the line of life 
Portendeth struggle, toil, and strife, 
And through a region with dangers rife, 
In darkness shalt thou go ! 
Melchior. Hail to thee, King of Jerusalem ! 
Though humbly born in Bethlehem, 
A sceptre and a diadem 

Await thy brow and hand ! 
The sceptre is a simple reed, 
The crown will make thy temples bleed, 
And in thy hour of greatest need, 
Abashed thy subjects stand ! 
Bdshazzar. Hail to thee, Christ of Christendom ! 
O'er all the earth thy kingdom come ! 
From distant Trebizond to Rome 

Thy name shall men adore ! 
Peace and good-will among all men, 
The Virgin has returned again, 
Returned the old Saturnian reign 
And Golden Age once more. 
The Child Christ. Jesus, the Son of God, am I, 
Born here to suffer and to die 
According to the prophecy, 
That other men may live ! 
The Virgin. And now these clothes, that wrapped him, 
take 
And keep them precious for his sake; 



244 THE GOLDEJST LEGEND. 

Our benediction thus we make, 
Nought else have we to give. 
Site gives them swaddling clothes, and they depart. 



V. THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 

Here shall Joseph come in leading an ass, on which are seated 
Mary and the Child. 

Mary. Here will we rest us, under these 
O'erhanging branches of the trees, 
Where robins chant their Litanies, 
And canticles oi joy. 
Joseph. My saddle-girth? have given way 
With trudging through the heat to-day; 
To you I think it is but play 
To ride and hold the boy. 
Mary. Hark ! how the robins shout and sing, 
As if to hail their infant King ! 
I will alight at yonder spring 
To wash his little coat. 
Joseph. And I will hobble well the ass, 
Lest, being loose upon the grass, 
He should escape; for, by the mass, 
He i3 nimble as a goat. 

Here Mary shall alight and go to the spring. 

Mary. Joseph ! I am much afraid, 
For men are sleeping in the shade; 
I fear that we shall"be waylaid, 
And robbed and beaten sore; 

Here a band of routers shall he seen sleeping, two of ivhom shall 
rise and come forward. 

Dimachus. Cock's soul ! deliver up your gold ! 
Joseph. I pray you, Sirs, let go your hold ! 

Of wealth I have no store. 
Dumachus. Give up your money ! 
Titus. Prithee cease! 

Let these good people go in peace ! 
Dumachus. First let them pay for their release, 

And then go on their way. 
Titus. These forty groats I give in fee, 

If thou wilt only silent be. 
Mary. May God be merciful to thee 

Upon the Judgment Day ! 
Jesus. When thirty years shall have gone by, 

I at Jerusalem shall die, 

By Jewish hands exalted high 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 245 

On the accursed tree. 
Then on my right and my left side, 
These thieves shall both be crucified, 
And Titus thenceforth shall abide 
In Paradise with me. 
Here a great rumour of trumpets and horses, like the noise of a 
king with his army, and the robbers shall take flight, 

VI. THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS. 

King Herod. Potz-tausend ! Himmel-sacrament ! 
Filled am I with great wonderment 

At this unwelcome nmvs ! 
Am I not Herod? Who shall dare 
My crown to take, my sceptre bear, 

As king among the Jews ? 

Here he shall stride up and down and flourish his swoi'd. 

What ho ! I fain would drink a can 
Of the strong wine of Canaan ! 

The wine of Helbon bring, 
I purchased at the Fair of Tyre, 
As red as blood, as hot as fire, 

And fit for any king ! 

He quaffs great goblets of wine. 

Now at the window will I stand 
While in the street the armed band 

The little children slay : 
The babe just born in Bethlehem 
Will surely slaughtered be with them, 

Nor live another day ! 

Here a voice vf lamentation shall be heard in the street 

Rachel. wicked king : cruel speed ! 
To do this most unrighteous deed! 
My children all are slain ! 
Herod. Ho, seneschal ! another cup ! 
With wine of Sorek fill it up ! 
I would a bumper drain ! 
Rahab. May maledictions fall and blast 
Thyself and lineage, to the last 
Of all thy kith and kin ! 
Hei'od. Another goblet ! quick ! and stir 
Pomegranate juice and drops of myrrh 
And calamus therein ! 
Soldiers {in the street). Give up thy child into our hands! 
It is King Herod who commands 
That he should thus be slain ! 



240 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

The Nurse Medina. monstrous men ! What have ye 
done! 
It is King Herod's only son 
That ye have cleft in twain ! 
Herod. Ah, luckless day ! What words of fear 
Are these tLat smite upon my ear 

With such a doleful sound ! 
What torments rack my heart and head ! 
Would I were dead ! would I were dead, 
And buried in the ground ! 
He falls down and writhes as though eaten by worms. Hell 
opens, and Saltan and Astaroth come forth and drag him 
down. 

VII. JESUS AT PLAT WITH HIS SCHOOLMATES. 

Jesus. The shower is over. Let us play, 
And make some sparrows out of clay, 
Down by the river's side. 
Judas. See how the stream has overflowed 
Its banks, and o'er the meadow road 
Is spreading far and wide ! 

They draw water out of the river by channels, and form little 
pools. Jesus makes twelve sparrows of clay, and the other boys 
do the same. 

Jesus. Look ! Look ! how prettily I make 
These little sparrows by the lake 

Bend down their necks and drink ! 
Now will I make them sing and soar 
So far, they shall return no more 
Unto this river's brink. 
Judas. That canst thou not ! They are but clay, 
They cannot sing, nor fly away 
Above the meadow lands ! 
Jesus. Fly, fly ! ye sparrows ! you are free ! 
And while you live, remember me, 
Who made you with my hands. 

Here Jesus shall clap his hands, and the spairows shall fly away 
chirruping. 

Judas. Thou art a sorcerer, I know; 
Oft has my mother told me so. 
I will not play with thee ! 

He strikes Jesus on the right side. 

Jesus. Ah, Judas ! thou hast smote my side, 
And when I -.hall be crucified, 
There shall I pierced be ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 2-17 

Here Joseph shall come in, and say : 

Joseph. Ye wicked "boys ! why do ye play, 
And break the holy Sabbath day ? 
What, think ye, will your mothers say 

To see yoa in such plight ! 
In such a sweat and such a heat, 
With all tnat mud upon your feet ! 
There's not a beggar in the street 

Makes such a sorry sight ! 

VIII. THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 

Rabbi Ben Israel, with a long beard, sitting on a high stool, 
with a rod in his hand. 

Rabbi. I am the Rabbi Ben Israel, 

Throughout this village known full well, 
And, as my scholars all will tell, 

Learned in things divine ; 
The Kabala and Talmud hoar 
Than all the prophets prize I more, 
For water is all Bible lore, 

But Mishna is strong wine. 

My fame extends from West to East 
And always, at the Purim feast, 
I am as drunk as any beast 

That wallows in his sty ! 
The wine it so elateth me, 
That I no difference can see 
Between " Accursed Hainan be ! " 

And " Blessed be Mordecai ! " 

Come hither, Judas Iscariot, 
Say, if thy lesson thou hast got 
From the Rabbinical Book or not. 

Why howl the dogs at night ? 
Judas. In the Rabbinical Book, it saith, 
The dogs howl, when with icy breath 
Great Sammael, the Angel of Death, 

Takes through the town his flight ! 
Rabbi. Well, boy! now say, if thou art wise, 

When the Angel of Death, who is full of eyes, 
Comes where a sick man dying lies, 

What doth he to the wight ? 
Judas. He stands beside him, dark and tall, 
Holding a sword, from which doth fall 
Into his mouth a drop of gall, 

And so ne uirneth white. 



248 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Rabbi. And now, my Judas, say to me 
What the great Voices Four may be, 
That quite across the world do flee, 
And are not heard by men ? 
Judas. The Voice of the Sun in heaven's dome, 
The Voice of the Murmuring of Rome, 
The Voice of a Soul that goeth home, 
And the Angel of the Rain ! 
Rabbi. Well have ye answered every one ! 
Now, little Jesus, the carpenter's son, 
Let us see how thy task is done. 
Canst thou thy letters say ? 
Jesus. Aleph. 

Rabbi. What next ? Do not stop yet. 

Go on with all the alphabet. 
Come, Aleph, Beth ; dost thou forget ? 
Cock's soul ! thou 'dst rather play ! 
Jesus. What Aleph means I fain would know, 

Before I any further go ! 
Rabbi. 0, by Saint Peter ! wouldsfc thou so ? 
Come hither, boy, to me. 
As surely as the letter Jod 
Once cried aloud, and spake to God, 
So surely shalt thou feel this rod, 
And punished shalt thou be ! 

Sere Rabbi Ben Israel shall lift up his rod to strike Jesus, and 
his right arm shall be paralysed. 



IX. CROWNED WITH FLOWERS. 

Jesus sitting among his playmates, crowned with flowers as their 
King. 

Boys. We spread our garments on the ground ! 
With fragrant flowers thy head is crowned, 
While like a guard we stand around, 

And hail thee as our King ! 
Thou art the new King of the Jews ! 
Nor let the passers-by refuse 
To bring that homage which men use 
To majesty to bring. 

Here a traveller shall go by, and the boys shall lay hold of his 
garments and say : 

Boys. Come hither ! and all reverence pay 
Unto our monarch, crowned to-day! 
Then go rejoicing on your way, 
In ail prosperity 1 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 249 

Traveller. Hail to the King of Bethlehem, 
Who weareth in his diadeni 
The yellow crocus for the gem 
Of his authority ! 

He passes by ; and others come in, bearing on a litter a sick child. 

Boys. Set down the litter and draw near ! 
The King of Bethlehem is here ! 
What ails the child, who seems to fear 
That we shall do him harm? 
The Bearers. He climbed up to the robin's nest, 
And out there darted, from his rest, 
A serpent with a crimson crest, 
And stung him in the arm. 
Jesus. Bring him to me, and let me feel 

The wounded place; my touch can heal 
The sting of serpents, and can steal 
The poison from the bite ! 

He touches the wound, and the boy begins to cry. 

Cease to lament ! I can f orsee 
That thou hereafter known shalt be, 
Among the men who follow me, 
As Simon the Canaanite ! 



EPILOGUE. 

In the after part of the day 
Will be represented another play, 
Of the Passion of our Blessed Lord, 
Beginning directly after Nones ! 
At the close of which we shall accord, 
By way of benison and reward, 
The sight of a holy Martyr's bones ! 



IV. 

The Road to Hirschau. Prince Henry and Elsie, with their attend- 
ants, on horseback. 

rule. Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city, 
impatiently bearing 
Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, of doing 
and daring ! 
Prince Henry. This life of ours is a wild seolian harp of many a 
joyous strain, 
But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls 
in pain. 



250 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Elsie. Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart that aches and 

bleeds with the stigma 

Of pain, alone bears th^ likeness oi Christ, and can comprehend 

its dark enigma. 

Prince Henry. Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure with little care 

of what may betide ; 

Else why am I travelling here beside thee, a demon that rides 

by an angel's side ? 

Elsie. All the hedges are white with dust, and the great dog under 

the creaking wain 

Hangs his head in the lazy heat, while onward the horses toil 

and strain. 

Prince Henry. Now they stop at the way-side inn, and the wag- 
goner laughs with the landlord's danghter, 
"While out of the dripping trough the horses distend their 
leathern sides with water. 
Elsie. All through life there are way-side inns, where man may re- 
fresh his soul with love ; 
Even the lowest may quench his thirst at rivulets fed by springs 
from above. 

Prince Henry. Yonder, where rises the cross of stone, our journey 

along the highway ends. 

And over the fields, by a bridle-path, down into the broad green 

valley descends. 

Elsie. I am not sorry to leave behind the beaten road with its dust 
and heat; 

The air will be sweeter far, and the turf will be softer under 
horses' feet. 

They turn doion a green lane. 

Elsie. Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley 

stretching for miles below 

Is white with blossoming cherry-trees, as if just covered with 

lightest snow. 

Prince Henry. Over our heads a white cascade is gleaming against 
the distant hill; 
We cannot hear it, nor see it move, but it hangs like a banner 
when winds are still. 
Elsie. Damp and cool is this deep ravine, and cool the sound of the 
brook by our side ! 
What is this castle that rises above us, and lords it over a land 
so wide? 
Prince Henry. It is the home of the Counts of Calva; well have I 
known these scenes of old, 
Well I remember each tower and turret, remember the brook- 
let, the wood and the wold. 
Elsie. Hark! from the little village below us the bells of the church 
are ringing for rain ! 



THE GOLL>EN LEGEND. 251 

Priests and peasants in long procession come forth and kneel on 
the arid plain. 
Prince Henry. They have not long to wait, for I see in the south 
uprising a little cloud, 
That before the sun shall be set will cover the sky above us as 
with a shroud. 

They pass on. 

TJie Convent of Hirschau in the Black Forest. The Convent 
cellar, Friar Claus comes in with a light and a basket of 
empty flagons. 

Friar Claus. I always enter this sacred place 

With a thoughtful, solemn, and reverent pace, 

Pausing long enough on each stair 

To breathe an ejaculatory prayer 

And a benediction on the vines 

That produce these various sorts of wines ! 

For my part, I am well content 

That we have got through with the tedious Lent ! 

Fasting is all very well for those 

Who have to contend with invisible foes ; 

But I am quite sure it does not agree 

With a quiet, peaceable man like me, 

Who am not of that nervous and meagre kind 

That are always distressed in body and mind ! 

And at times it really does me good 

To come down among this brotherhood, 

Dwelling for ever under ground, 

Silent, contemplative, round and sound ; 

Each one old, and brown with mould, 

But filled to the lips with the ardour of youth. 

With the latent power and love of truth, 

And with virtues fervent and manifold. 

I have heard it said, that at Easter-tide, 
When buds are swelling on every side, 
And the sap begins to move in the vine, 
Then in all the cellars, far and wide, 
The oldest, as well as the newest, wine 
Begins to stir itself, and ferment, 
With a kind of revolt and discontent 
At being so long in darkness pent, 
And fain woul<£ burst from its sombre tun 
To bask on the hill-side in the sun ; 
As in the bosom of us poor friars, 
The tumult of half -subdued desires 
For the world that we have left behind 
Disturbs at times all peace of mind ! 



252 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

And now that we have lived through Lent, 
My duty it is, as often before, 
To open awhile the prison-door, 
And give these restless spirits vent. 

Now here is a cask that stands alone, 

And has stood a hundred years or more, 

Its beard of cobwebs, long and hoar, 

Trailing and sweeping along the floor, 

Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave, 

Taciturn, sombre, sedate, and grave, 

Till his beard has grown through the table of stone ! 

It is of the quick and not of the dead ! 

In its veins the blood is hot and red, 

And a heart still beats in those ribs of oak 

That time may have tamed, but has not broke ! 

It comes from Bacharach on the Rhine, 

Is one of the three best kinds of wine, 

And costs some hundred florins the ohm ; 

But that I do not consider dear, 

When I remember that every year 

Four butts are sent to the Pope of Rome. 

And whenever a goblet thereof I drain, 

The old rhyme keeps running in my brain : 

At Bacharach on the Rhine, 
At Hochheim on the Main, 
And at Wurzburg on the Stein, 
Grow the three best kinds of wine ! 

They are all good wines, and better far 

Than those of the Neckar, or those of the Ahr. 

In particular, Wurzburg well may boast 

Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost, 

Which of all wines I like the most. 

This I shall draw for the Abbot's drinking, 

Who seems to be much of my way of thinking. 

Fills a flagon. 

'Ah ! how the streamlet laughs and sings 1 

What a delicious fragrance springs 

Erom the deep flagon, while it fills, 

As of hyacinths and daffodils ! 

Between this cask and the Abbot's lips 

Many have been the sips and slips ; 

Many have been the draughts of wine, 

On their way to his, that have stopped at mine ; 

And many a time my soul has hankered 

For a deep draught out of his silver tankard, 

When it should have been busy with other affairs, 



THE GOLDEN" LEGEND. 253 

Less with its longings and more with its prayers. 
But now there is no such awkward condition, 
No danger of death and eternal perdition ; 
So here 's to the Abbot and Brothers all, 
"Who dwell in this convent of Peter and Paul ! 

He drinks, 

cordial delicious ! soother of pain ! 
It flashes like sunshine into my brain ! 
A benison rest on the Bishop who sends 
Such a fudder of wine as this to his friends ! 

And now a flagon for such as may ask - 

A draught from the noble Bacharach cask, 

And I will be gone, though I know full well 

The cellar 's a cheerf uller place than the cell. 

Behold where he stands, all sound and good. 

Brown and old in his oaken hood; 

Silent he seems externally 

As any Carthusian monk may be; 

But within, what a spirit of deep unrest ! 

What a seething and simmering in his breast ! 

As if the heaving of his great heart 

Would burst his belt of oak apart ! 

Let me unloose this button of wood, 

And quiet a little his turbulent mood. 

Sets it running. 

See ! how its currents gleam and shine, 
As if they had caught the purple hues 
Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine, 
Descending and mingling with the dews; 
Or as if the grapes were stained with the blood 
Of the innocent boy, who, some years back. 
Was taken and crucified by the Jews, 
In that ancient town of Bacharach; 
Perdition upon those infidel Jews, 
In that ancient town of Bacharach ! 
The beautiful town, that gives us wine 
With the fragrant odour of Muscadine ! 

1 should deem it wrong to let this pass 
Without first touching my lips to the glass, 
For here in the midst of the current I stand. 
Like the stone Pfalz in the midst of the river, 
Taking toll upon either hand, 

And much more grateful to the giver. 

He drinks. 
Here, now, is a very inferior kind, 



254 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Such as in any town you may find, 
Such as one might imagine would suit 
The rascal who drank wine out of a boot. 
And, after all, it was not a crime, 
For he won thereby Dorf Hiiffelsheim, 
A jolly old toper ! who at a pull 
Could drink a postilion's jack-boot full, 
And ask with a laugh, when that was done, 
If the fellow had left the other one ! 
This wine is as good as we can afford 
To the friars, who sit at the lower board., 
And cannot distinguish bad from good, 
And are far better off than if they could, 
Being rather the rude disciples of beer 
Than of anything more refined and dear 3 
Fills the other flagon and departs. 

The Scriptorium. Friar Pacificus transcribing and illuminating. 

Friar Pacificus. It is growing dark ! Yet one line more, 
And then my work for to-day is o'er. 
I come again to the name of the Lord ! 
Ere I that awful name record, 
That is spoken so lightly among men, 
Let me pause a while, and wash my pen ; 
Pure from blemish and blot must it be, 
When it writes that word of mystery ! 

Thus have I laboured on and on, 

Nearly through the Gospel of John. 

Can it be that from the lips 

Of this same gentle Evangelist, 

That Christ himself perhaps has kissed, 

Came the dread Apocalypse ! 

It has a very awful look, 

As it stands there at the end of the book, 

Like the sun in an eclipse. 

Ah me ! when I think of that vision divine, 

Think of writing it, line by line, 

I stand in awe of the terrible curse, 

Like the trump of doom, in the closing verse ! 

God forgive me ! if ever I 

Take aught from the book of that Prophecy, 

Lest my part too should be taken away 

From the Book of Life, on the Judgment Day. 

This is well written, though I say it 1 
I should not be afraid to display it, 
In open day, on the self-same shelf 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

With the writings of St Thecla herself. 
Or of Theodosius, who of old 
Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold ! 
That goodly folio standing yonder, 
Without a single blot or blunder, 
Would not bear away the palm from mine, 
If we should compare them line for line. 

There, now, is an initial letter ! 

St Ulric himself never made a better! 

Finished down to the leaf and the snail, 

Down to the eyes on the peacock's tail ! 

And now as I turn the volume over, 

And see what lies between cover and cover, 

What treasures of art these pages hold, 

All a-blaze with crimson and gold, 

God forgive me ! I seem to feel 

A certain satisfaction steal 

Into my heart and into my brain, 

As if my talent had not lain 

Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain. 

Yes, I might almost say to the Lord, 

Here is a copy of thy Word, 

Written out with much toil and pain; 

Take it, Lord, and let it be 

As something I have done for thee ! 

He looks from the Window. 

How sweet the air is ! How fair the scene ! 

I wish I had as lovely a green 

To paint my landscapes and my leaves ! 

How the swallows twitter under the eaves ! 

There, now, there is one in her nest; 

I can just catch a glimpse of her head and breast, 

And will sketch her thus in her quiet nook, 

For the margin of my Gospel book. 

He makes a sketch, 

I can see no more. Through the valley yonder 

A shower is passing ; I hear the thunder 

Mutter its curses in the air, 

The Devil's own and only prayer ! 

The dusty road is brown with rain, 

And, speeding on with might and main, 

Hitherward rides a gallant train. 

They do not parley, they cannot wait, 

But hurry in at the convent gate. 

What a fair lady ! and beside her 

What a handsome, graceful, noble rider ! 



256 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Now she gives him her hand to alight; 
They will beg a shelter for the night. 
I will go down to the corridor, 
And try to see that face once more ; 
It will do for the face of some beautiful Saint, 
Or for one of the Maries I shall paint. 
Goes out. 
Th,e Cloisters. TJie Abbot Ernestus pacing to and fro. 
Allot. Slowly, slowly up the wall 

Steals the sunshine, steals the shade; 
Evening damps begin to fall, 
Evening shadows are displayed. 
Kound me, o'er me, everywhere, 
All the sky is grand with clouds, 
And athwart the evening air 
Wheel the swallows home in crowds. 
Shafts of sunshine from the west 
Paint the dusky windows red ; 
Darker shadows, deeper rest, 
Underneath and overhead. 
Darker, darker, and more wan, 
In my breast the shadows fall; 
Upward steals the life of man, 
As the sunshine from the wait 
From the wall into the sky, 
From the roof along the spire; 
Ah, the souls of those that die 
Are but sunbeams lifted higher. 

Enter Prince Henry. 
Prince Henry. Christ is arisen ! 
Allot. Amen ! he is arisen ! 

His peace be with you ! 
Prince Henry. Here it reigns for ever \ 

The peace of God, that passeth understanding, 

Reigns in these cloisters and these corridors. 

Are you Ernestus, abbot of the convent? 
Allot. I am. 
Prince Henry. And I Prince Henry of Hoheneck, 

Who crave your hospitality to-night. 
Allot. You are thrice welcome to our humble walls. 

You do us honour; and we shall requite it, 

I fear, but poorly, entertaining you 

With Paschal eggs, and our poor convent wine, 

The remnants of our Easter holidays. 
Prince Henry. How fares it with the holy monks of Hirsehau ! 

Are all things well with them? 
Abbot. All things are well. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 257 

Prince Henry. A noble convent ! I have known it long 

By the report of travellers. I now see 

Their commendations lag behind the truth. 

You lie here in the valley of the Nagold 

As in a nest : and the still river, gliding 

Along its bed, is like an admonition 

How all things pass. Your lands are rich and ample, 

And your revenues large. God's benediction 

Bests on your convent. 
Abbot, By our charities 

We strive to merit it. Our Lord and master, 

When he departed, left us in his will, 

As our best legacy on earth, the poor ! 

These we have always with us ; had we not, 

Our hearts would grow as hard as are these stones. 
Prince Henry. If I remember right, the Counts of Calva 

Founded your convent. 
Abbot. Even as you say. 

Prince Henry. And, if I err not, it is very old. 
Abbot. Within these cloisters lie already buried 

Twelve holy Abbots. Underneath the flags 

On which we stand, the Abbot William lies, 

Of blessed memory. 
Prince Henry. And whose tomb is that, 

Which bears the brass escutcheon ? 
Abbot. A benefactor's, 

Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood 

Godfather to our bells. 
Prince Henry. Your monks are learned 

And holy men, I trust. 
Abbot. There are among them 

Learned and holy men. Yet in this age 

We need another Hildebrand, to shake 

And purify us like a mighty wind. 

The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonder 

God does not lose his patience with it wholly, 

And shatter it like glass ! Even here, at times, 

Within these walls, where all should be at peace, 

I have my trials. Time has laid his hand 

Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, 

But as a harper lays his open palm 

Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations. 

Ashes are on my head, and on my lips 

Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness 

And weariness of life, that makes me ready 

To say to the dead abbots under us, 

" Make room for me ! " Only I see the dusk 

Of evening twilight coming, and have not 

Completed half my taskj and so at times 



258 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

The thought of my shortcomings in this liie 

Falls like a shadow on the life to come. 
Prince Henry, We must all die, and not the old alone I 

The young have no exemption from that doom. 
Abbot. Ah, yes ! the young may die, but the old must ! 

That is the difference. 
Prince Henry. I have heard much laud 

Of your transcribers. Your Scriptorium 

Is famous among all, your manuscripts 

Praised for their beauty and their excellence. 
Abbot. That is indeed our boast. If you desire it, 

You shall behold these treasures. And meanwhile 

Shall the Ref eetorarius bestow 

Your horses and attendants for the night. 
They go in. The Vesper-bell rings. 

Thx Chapel. Vespers ; after which the monks retire, a chorister lead- 
ing an old monk who is blind. 

Prince Henry. They are all gone, save one who lingers, 

Absorbed in deep and silent prayer. 

As if his heart could find no rest, 

At times he beats his heaving breast 

"With clenched and convulsive fingers, . 

Then lifts them trembling in the air. 

A chorister, with golden hair, 

Guides hitherward his heavy pace. 

Can it be so ? Or does my sight 

Deceive me in the uncertain light ? 

Ah, no ! I recognise that face, 

Though Time has touched it in his flight, 

And changed the auburn hair to white, 

It is Count Hugo of the Rhine, 

The deadliest foe of all our race, 

And hateful unto me and mine ? 
The Blind Monk. Who is it that doth stand so near, 

His whispered words I almost hear ? 
Prince Henry. I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, 

And you, Count Hugo of the Rhine ! 

I know you, and I see the scar, 

The brand upon your forehead, slune 

And redden, like a baleful star ! 
The Blind Monk. Count Hugo once, but now the wreck 

Of what I was. Hoheneck ! 

The passionate will, the pride, the wrath, 

That bore me headlong on my path ; 

Stumbled and staggered into fear, 

And failed me in my mad career, 

As a tired steed some evil-doer, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 259 

Alone upon a desolate moor, 
Bewildered, lost, deserted, blind, 
And hearing loud and close behind 
The o'ertaking steps of his pursuer. 
Then suddenly from the dark there came 
A voice that called me by my name, 
And said to me, " Kneel down and pray ! *' 
And so my terror passed away, 
Passed utterly away for ever. 
•Contrition, penitence, remorse, 
Came on me, with o'erwhelming force ; 
A hope, a longing, an endeavour, 
By days of penance and nights of prayer, 
To frustrate and defeat despair ! 
Calm, deep, and still is now my heart, 
With tranquil waters overflowed ; 
A lake whose unseen fountains start, 
Where once the hot volcano glowed. 
And you, Prince of Hoheneck ! 
Have known me in that earlier time, 
A man of violence and crime, 
Whose passions brooked no curb nor check. 
Behold me now, in gentler mood, 
One of this holy brotherhood. 
Give me your hand ; here let me kneel ; 
Make your reproaches sharp as steel ; 
Spurn me, and smite me on each cheek ; 
"No violence can harm the meek, 
There is no wound Christ cannot heal. 
Yes ; lift your princely hand, and take 
Revenge, if 'tis revenge you seek ; 
Then pardon me, for Jesus' sake. 
Prince Henry. Arise, Count Hugo ! let there be 
No further strife nor enmity 
Between us twain ; we both have erred ! 
Too rash in act, too wroth in word, 
From the beginning have we stood 
In fierce, defiant attitude, 
Each thoughtless of the other's right, 
And each reliant on his might. 
But now our souls are more subdued ; 
The hand of God, and not in vain, 
Has touched us with the fire of pain. 
Let us kneel down, and side by side 
Pray, till our souls are purified. 
And pardon will not be denied. 

Tlieij hieel. 



260 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

The Refectory. Gaudiolum of Monies at Midnight. Lucifeb 
disguised as a Friar. 

Friar Paul (sings). 
Ave ! color vini clari, 
Dulcis potus, non amari, 
Tua nos inebriari, 
Digneris potentia ! 
Friar Cuthbert. Not so much noise, my worthy freres. 
You '11 disturb the Abbot at his prayers. 

Friar Paul (sings). 
! quam placens in colore ! 
! quam f ragrans in odore ! 
I quam sapidum in ore ! 
Dulce linguae vinculum ! 
Friar Cuthbert. I should think your tongue had broken its chain ! 

Friar Paul (sings). 
Felix venter quern intrabis ! 
Felix guttur quod rigabis ! 
Felix os quod tu lavabis ! 
Et beata labia ! 
Friar Cuthbert. Peace ! I say, peace ! 
Will you never cease ? 

You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell you again ! _ 
Friar John. No danger ; to-night he will let us alone, 

As I happen to know he has guests of his own. 
Friar Cuthbert. Who are they? 

Friar John. A German Prince and his train, 

Who arrived here just before the rain. 
There is with him a damsel fair to see, 
As slender and graceful as a reed ! 
When she alighted from her steed, 
It seemed like a blossom blown from a tree. 
Friar Cuthbert. None of your pale-faced girls for me ! 

None of your damsels of high degree ? 
Friar John. Come, old fellow, drink down to your peg 1 
But do not drink any further, I beg. 

Friar Paul (sings). 
In the days of gold, 
The days of old, 
Crosier of wood 
And bishop of gold ! 
Friar Cuthbert. What an infernal racket and riot ! 
Can you not drink your wine in quiet ? 
Why fill the convent with such scandals, 
As if we were so many drunken Vandals J N 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 261 

Friar Paul (continues). 
Now we have changed 
That law so good, 
To crosier of gold 
And bishop of wood ! 
Friar Cuthbert. Well, then, since you are in the mood 
To give your noisy humours vent, 
Sing and howl to your heart's content ! 

Chorus of Monks* 
Funde vinum, funde ! 
Tanquam sint fluminis undse, 
Nee quseras unde, 
Sed fimdas semper ahunde ! 
Friar John. What is the name of yonder friar, 

With an eye that glows like a coal of fire. 

And such a black mass of tangled hair ? 
Friar Paul. He who is sitting there, 

With a rollicking 

Devil-may-care, 

Free-and-easy look and air, 

As if he were used to such feasting and frolicking? 
Friar John. The same. 
Friar Paul. He 's a stranger. You had better ask his name, 

And where he is going, and whence he came. 
Friar John. Hallo ! Sir Friar ! 
Friar Paul. You must raise your voice a little higher, 

He does not seem to hear what you say. 

Now try again ! He is looking this way. 
Friar John. Hallo ! Sir Friar, 

We wish to inquire 

Whence you came, and where you are going, 

And anything else that is worth the knowing. 

So be so good as to open your head. 
Lucifer. I am a Frenchman born and bred, 

Going on a pilgrimage to Home. 

My home 

Is the convent of St Gildas de Bhuys, 

Of which, very like, you never have heard. 
Monks. Never a word ! 
Lucifer.' You must know, then, it is in the diocese 

Called the Diocese of Vannes, 

In the province of Brittany. 

From the gray rocks of Morbihan 

It overlooks the angry sea; 

The very sea-shore where, 

In his great despair, 

Abbot Abelard walked to and fro, 



262 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Filling the night with woe, 

And wailing aloud to the merciless seas, 

The name of his sweet Heloise ! 

Whilst overhead 

The convent windows gleamed as red 

As the fiery eyes of the monks within, 

Who with jovial din 

Gave themselves up to all kinds of sin ! 

Ha ! that is a convent ! that is an abbey ! 

Over the doors, 

None of your death-heads carved in wood, 

None of your Saints looking pious and good, 

None of your Patriarchs old and shabby ! 

But the heads and tusks of boars, 

And the cells 

Hung all round with the fells 

Of the fallow-deer. 

And then what cheer ! 

What jolly, fat friars, 

Sitting round the great, roaring fires, 

Koaring louder than they, 

With their strong wines, 

And their concubines, 

And never a bell 

With its swagger and swell, 

Calling you up with a start of affright 

In the dead of night, 

To send you grumbling down dark stairs, 

To mumble your prayers. 

But the cheery crow 

Of cocks in the yard below, 

After daybreak an hour or so, 

And the barking of deep-mouthed hounds; 

These are the sounds 

That, instead of bells, salute the ear. 

And then all day 

Up and away 

Through the forest, hunting the deer ! 

Ah, my friends ! I 'm afraid that here 

You are a little too pious, a little too tame, 

And the more is the shame. 

'Tis the greatest folly 

Not to be jolly; 

That's what I think! 

Come, drink, drink, 

Drink, and die game ! 
Monks. And your Abbot What's-his-name ? 
Lucifer. Abelard. 
Monks. Did he drink hard ? 



THE GOLDEN LEGEjSD. 2G3 

Lucifer. 0, no ! Not he ! 

He was a dry old fellow, 

Without juice enough to get thoroughly mellow. 

There he stood, 

Lowering at us in sullen mood, 

As if he had come into Brittany 

Just to reform our brotherhood ! 

A roar of laughter. 

But you see 

It never would do ! 

For some of us knew a thing or two, 

In the Abbey of St. Gildas du Rhuys ! 

For instance, the great ado 

With old Fulbert's niece, 

The young and lovely Heloise ! 
Friar John. Stop there, if you please, 

Till we drink to the fair Heloise ! 
All {drinking and shouting). Heloise! Heloise! 

The Cliapel-bell tolls. 

Lucifer {starting). What is that bell for? Are you such 
asses 

As to keep up the fashion of midnight masses ? 
Friar Cutlibert. It is only a poor, unfortunate brother, 

Who is gifted with most miraculous powers 

Of getting up at all sorts of hours, 

And, by way of penance and Christian meekness, 

Of creeping silently out of his cell, 

To take a pull at that hideous bell ; 

So that all the monks who are lying awake 

May murmur some kind of prayer for his sake, 

And adapted to his peculiar weakness ! 
Friar John. From frailty and fall — - 
All. Good Lord, deliver us all! 
Friar Cutlibert. And before the bell for matins sounds, 

He takes his lantern, and goes the rounds, 

Flashing it into our sleepy eyes, 

Merely to say it is time to arise. 

But enough of that. Go on, if you please, 

With your story about St Gildas de Rhuys. 
Lucifer. Well, it finally came to pass 

That, half in fun and half in malice, 

One Sunday at Mass 

We put some poison into the chalice, 

But, either by accident or design, 

Peter Abelard kept away 

From the chapel that day, 

And a poor, young friar, who in his stead 



'264: THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Drank the sacramental wine, 

Fell on the steps of the altar, dead ! 

But look, do you see at the window there 

That face, with a look of grief and despair, 

That ghastly face, as of one in pain ? 
Monies. Who? where'/ 

Lucifer. As I spoke, it vanished away again. 
Friar Cuthbert. It is that nefarious 

Siebald the Refectorarius. 

That fellow is always playing the scout, 

Creeping and peeping and prowling about ; 

And then he regales 

The Abbot with scandalous tales. 
Lucifer. A spy in the convent ? One of the brothers 

Telling scandalous tales of the others ? 

Out upon him, the lazy loon ! 

I would put a stop to that pretty soon, 

In a way he should rue it. 
Monies. How shall we do it? 
Lucifer. Do you, brother Paul, 

Creep under the window, close to the wall, 

And open it suddenly when I call. 

Then seize the villain by the hair, 

And hold him there, 

And punish him soundly, once for all. 
Friar Cuthbert. As St Dunstan of old, 

We are told, 

Once caught the Devil by the nose ! 
Lucifer. Ha ! ha ! that story is very clever, 

But has no foundation whatsoever. 

Quick ! for I see his face again 

Glaring in at the window pane; 

Now ! now ! and do not spare your blows. 



Friar Paul, opens the ivincloiv suddenly, and seizes Siebald. 
They beat him. 

Friar Siebald. Help ! help ! are you going to slay me ? 
Friar Paul. That will teach you again to betray me ! 
Friar Siebald. Mercy ! mercy ! 

Friar Paul (shouting and beating), 
Rumpas bellorum lorum, . 
Vim confer amorum 
Morum verorum, rorum 
Tu plena polorum ! 
Lucifer. Who stands in the doorway yonder, 
Stretching out his trembling hand, 
Just as Abelard used to stand, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 265 

The flash of his keen, black eyes, 

Forerunning the thunder ? 
TJie Monies {in confusion). The Abbot ! the Abbot ! 
Friar Cutlibert. And what is the wonder! 

He seems to have taken you by surprise. 
Friar Francis. Hide the great flagon 

From the eyes of the dragon ! 
Friar Catlibert. Pull the brown hood over your face ! 

This will bring us into disgrace ! 
Abbot. What means this revel and carouse? 

Is this a tavern and drinking-house? 

Are you Christian monks, or heathen devils, 

To pollute this convent with your revels ? 

Were Peter Damian still upon earth, 

To be shocked by such ungodly mirth, 

He would write your names, with pen of gall, 

In his Book of Gomorrah, one and all ! 

Away, you drunkards I to your cells, 

And pray till you hear the matin-bells ; 

You, Brother Francis, and you, Brother Paul ! 

And as a penance mark each prayer 

With the scourge upon your shoulders bare : 

Nothing atones for such a sin 

But the blood that follows the discipline. x 

And you, Brother Cuthbert, come with me 

Alone into the sacristy ; 

You, who should be a guide to your brothers, 

And are ten times worse than all the others, 

For you I 've a draught that has long been brewing, 

You shall do a penance worth the doing ! 

Away to your prayers, then, one and all ! 

I wonder the very convent wall 

Does not crumble and crush you in its fall ! 

The neighbouring Nunnery, TJie Abbess Ikmingard sitting with 
Elsie in the moonlight. 

Irmingard. The night is silent, the wind is still, 
The moon is looking from yonder hill 
Down upon convent, and grove, and garden; 
The clouds have passed away from her face, 
Leaving behind them no sorrowful trace, 
Only the tender and quiet grace 
Of one, whose heart has been healed with pardon ! 

And such am I. My soul within 
Was dark with passion and soiled with sin. 
But now its wounds are healed again; 
Gone are the anguish, the terror, and pain: 



266 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

For across that desolate land of woe, 

O'er whose burning sands I was forced to go, 

A wind from heaven began to blow; 

And all my being trembled and shook, 

As the leaves of the tree, or the grass of the field, 

And I was healed, as the sick are healed, 

When fanned by the leaves of the Holy Book ! 

As thou sittest in the moonlight there, 

Its glory flooding thy golden hair, 

And the only darkness that which lies 

In the haunted chambers of thine eyes, 

I feel my soul drawn unto thee, 

Strangely, and strongly, and more and more, 

As to one I have known and loved before; 

For every soul is akin to me 

That dwells in the land of mystery ! 

I am the Lady Irmingard, 

Born of a noble race and name ! 

Many a wandering Suabian bard, 

Whose life was dreary, and bleak, and hard, 

Has found through me the way to fame. 

Brief and bright were those days, and the night 

Which followed was full of a lurid light. 

Love, that of every woman's heart 

Will have the whole, and not a part, 

That is to her, in Nature's plan, 

More than ambition is to man,] 

Her light, her life, her very breath, 

With no alternative but death, 

Found me a maiden soft and young, 

Just fromT}he convent's cloistered school, 

And seated on my lowly stool, 

Attentive while the minstrels sung. 

Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, 

Fairest, noblest, best of all, 

Was Walter of the Vogelweid; 

And, whatsoever may betide, 

Still I think of him with pride ! 

His song was of the summer-time, 

The very birds sang in his rhyme; 

The sunshine, the delicious air, 

The fragrance of the flowers, were there ; 

And I grew restless as I heard, 

Restless and buoyant as a bird, 

Down soft, aerial currents sailing, 

O'er blossomed orchards, and fields in bloom, 

And through the momentary gloom 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND- 

Of shadows o'er the landscape trailing, 
Yielding and borne I knew not where, 
But feeling resistance unavailing. 
And thus, unnoticed and apart, 
And more by accident than choice, 
I listened to that single voice 
Until the chambers of my heart 
"Were filled with it by night and day. 
One night, — it was a night in May, — 
"Within the garden, unawares, 
Under the blossoms in the gloom, 
I heard it utter my own name, 
With protestations and wild prayers; 
And it rang through me, and became 
Like the archangel's trump of doom, 
"Which the soul hears, and must obey; 
And mine arose as from a tomb. 
My former life now seemed to me 
Such as hereafter death may be, 
"When in the great Eternity 
"We shall awake and find it day. 

It was a dream, and would not stay; 
A dream, that in a single night 
Faded and vanished out of sight. 
My father's anger followed fast 
This passion, as a freshening blast 
Seeks out and fans the fire, whose rage 
It may increase, but not assuage. 
And he exclaimed : " No wandering bard 
Shall win thy hand, Irmingard ! 
For which Prince Henry of Hoheneck 
By messenger and letter sues." 

Gently, but firmly, I replied : 

" Henry of Hoheneck I discard ! 

Never the hand of Irmingard 

Shall lie in his as the hand of a bride ! '' 

Thi3 said I, Walter, for thy sake; 

This said I, for I could not choose. 

After a pause, my father spake 

In that cold and deliberate tone 

Which turns the hearer into stone, 

And seems itself the act to be 

That follows with such dread certainty; 

" This, or the cloister and the veil ! " 

No other words than these he said, 

But they were like a funeral wail; 

My life was ended, my heart was dead. 



267 



268 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

That night from the castle-gate went down, 

With silent, slow, and stealthy pace, 

Two shadows, mounted on shadowy steeds, 

Taking the narrow path that leads 

Into the forest dense and brown. 

In the leafy darkness of the place, 

One could not distinguish form nor face, 

Only a bulk without a shape, 

A darker shadow in the shade; 

One scarce could say it moved or stayed, 

Thus it was we made our escape ! 

A foaming brook, with many a bound, 

Followed us like a playful hound; 

Then leaped before us, and in the hollow 

Paused, and waited for us to follow, 

And seemed impatient, and afraid 

That our tardy flight should be betrayed 

By the sound our horses' hoof-beats made. 

And when we reached the plain below, 

We paused a moment and drew rein 

To look back at the castle again; 

And we saw the windows all a-glow 

With lights, that were passing to and fro ; 

Our hearts with terror ceased to beat; 

The brook crept silent to our feet ; 

We knew what most we feared to know. 

Then suddenly horns began to blow; 

And we heard a shout, and a heavy tramp. 

And our horses snorted in the damp 

K ight-air of the meadows green and wide, 

And in a moment, side by side, 

So close, they must have seemed but one, 

The shadows across the moonlight run. 

And another came, and swept behind, 

Like the shadow of clouds before the wind ! 

How I remember that breathless flight 
Across the moors, in the summer night ! 
How under our feet the long, white road, 
Backward like a river flowed, 
Sweeping with it fences and hedges, 
Whilst further away, and overhead, 
Paler than I, with fear and dread, 
The moon fled with us, as we fled 
Along the forest's jagged edges ! 

All this I can remember well ; 
But of what afterwards befell 
I nothing further can recall 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 269 

Than a blind, desperate, headlong fall ; 

The rest is a blank and darkness all. 

When I awoke out of this swoon, 

The sun was shining, not the moon, 

Making a cross upon the wall 

With the bars of my windows narrow and tall; 

And I prayed to it, as I had been wont to pray. 

From early childhood, day by day, 

Each morning, as in bed I lay ! 

I was lying again in my own room ! 

And I thanked God, in my fever and pain, 

That those shadows on the midnight plain 

Were gone, and could not come again I 

I struggled no longer with my doom i 

This happened many years ago. 
I left my father's home to come, 
Like Catherine to her martyrdom, 
For blindly I esteemed it so. 
And when I heard the convent door 
Behind me close, to ope no more, 
I felt it smite me like a blow. 
Through all my limbs a shudder ran. 
And on my bruised spirit fell 
The dampness of my narrow cell 
As night-air on a wounded man, 
Giving intolerable pain. 

But now a better life began. 

I felt the agony decrease 

By slow degrees, then wholly cease, 

Ending in perfect rest and peace I 

It was not apathy, nor dulness, 

That weighed and pressed upon my brain, 

But the same passion I had given 

To earth before, now turned to heaven 

With all its overflowing fulness. 

Alas ! the world is full of peril ! 

The path that runs through the fairest nieade 

On the sunniest side of the valley, leads 

Into a region bleak and sterile ! 

Alike in the high-born and the lowly, 

The will is feeble, and passion strong. 

We cannot sever right from wrong. 

Some falsehood mingles with all truth; 

Nor is it strange the heart of youth 

Should waver and comprehend but slowly 

The things that are holy and unholy; 



270 THE GOLDE1ST LEGEND. . 

But in this sacred and calm retreat, 
"We are all well and safely shielded 
From winds that blow, and waves that beat, 
From the cold, and rain, and blighting heat, 
To which the strongest hearts have yielded. 
Here we stand as the Virgins Seven, 
For our celestial bridegroom yearning; 
Our hearts are lamps for ever burning, 
With a steady and unwavering flame, 
Pointing upward, for ever the same, 
Steadily upward toward the Heaven ! 

The moon is hidden behind a cloud; 

A sudden darkness fills the room, 

And thy deep eyes amid the gloom, 

Shine like jewels in a shroud. 

On the leaves is a sound of falling rain ; 

A bird, awakened in its nest, 

Gives a faint twitter of unrest, 

Then smooths its plumes and sleeps again. 

No other sounds than these I hear; 

The hour of midnight must be near. 

Thou art o'erspent with the day's fatigue 

Of riding many a dusty league; 

Sink, then, gently to thy slumber; 

Me so many cares encumber, 

So many ghosts, and forms of fright, 

Have started from their graves to-night, 

They have driven sleep from mine eyes away : 

I will go down to the chapel and pray. 



V. 

A Covered Bridge at Lucerne. 

Prince Henry. God's blessing on the architects who build 
The bridges o'er swift rivers and abysses 
Before impassable to human feet, 
No less than on the builders of cathedrals, 
Whose massive walls are bridges thrown across 
The dark and terrible abyss of Death. 
Well has the name of Pontifex been given 
Unto the Church's head, as the chief builder 
And arclrtect of the invisible bridge 
That leads from earth to heaven. 

Elsie. How dark it grows ! 

What are these paintings on the walls around us? 

Prince Henry. The Dance Macabar ! 

Elsie. What? 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 27 1 

Prince Henry. The Dance of Death ! 

All that go to and fro must look upon it, 
Mindful of what they shall be, while beneath, 
Among the wooden piles, the turbulent river 
Rushes, impetuous as the river of life, 
"With dimpling eddies, ever green and bright, 
Save where the shadow of this bridge falls on it. 

Elsie. 0, yes ! I see it now ! 

Prince Henry. The grim musician 

Leads all men through the mazes of that dance, 
To different sounds in different measures moving ; 
Sometimes he plays a lute, sometimes a drum. 
To tempt or terrify. 

Elsie. What is this picture? 

Prince Henry. It is a young man singing to a nun, 
Who kneels at her devotions, but in kneeling 
Turns round to look at him; and Death, meanwhile, 
Is putting out the candles on the altar ! 

Elsie. Ah, what a pity 'tis that she should listen 
Unto such songs, when in her orisons 
She might have heard in heaven the angels singing ! 

Prince Henry. Here he has stolen a jester's cap and bells. 
And dances with the Queen. 

Elsie. A foolish jest ! 

Prince Henry. And here the heart of the new-wedded wife. 
Coming from church with her beloved lord, 
He startles with the rattle of his drum. 

Elsie. Ah, that is sad ! And yet perhaps 'tis best 

That she should die, with all the sunshine on her, 
And all the benedictions of the morning, 
Before this affluence of golden light 
Shall fade into a cold and clouded gray, 
Then into darkness ! 

Prince Henry. Under it is written, 

" Nothing but death shall separate thee and me ! " 

Elsie. And what is this, that follows close upon it ? 

Prince Henry. Death, playing on a dulcimer. Behind him, 
A poor old woman, with a rosary, 
Follows the sound and seems to wish her feet 
Were swifter to o'ertake him. Underneath, 
The inscription reads, " Better is Death than Life." 

Elsie. Better is Death than Life ! Ah yes ! to thousands 
Death plays upon a dulcimer, and sings 
That song of consolation, till the air 
Rings with it, and they cannot choose but follow 
Whither he leads. And not the old alone, 
But the young also hear it, and are still. 

Prince Henry. Yes, in their sadder moments. 'Tis the sound 
Of their own hearts they hear, half full of tears, 



272 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Which are like crystal cups, half filled with water, 
[Responding to the pressure of a finger 
With music sweet and low and melancholy. 
Let us go forward, and no longer stay - 
In this great picture-gallery of Death ! 
I hate it ! ay, the very thought of it ! 

Elsie. Why is it hateful to you ? 

Prince Henry. For the reason 

That life, and all that speaks of life, is lovely, 
And death, and all that speaks of death is hateful. 

Elsie. The grave itself is but a covered bridge, 

Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness ! 

Prince Henry (emerging from the bridge). I breathe again more 
freely ! Ah, how pleasant 
To come once more into the light of day, - 
Out of that shadow, of death ! To hear again 
The hoof-beats of our horses on firm ground, 
And not upon those hollow planks, resounding 
With a sepulchral echo, like the clods 
On coffins in a churchyard ! Yonder lies 
The Lake of the Four Forest-Towns, apparelled 
In light, and lingering, like a village maiden, 
Hid in the bosom of her native mountains, 
Then pouring all her life into another's, 
Changing her name and being ! Overhead, 
Shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air, 
Eises Pilatus, with his windy pines. 
They pass on. 

The Devil's Bridge. Prince Henry and Elsie crossing, with 
attendants* 

Guide. This bridge is called the Devil's Bridge. 

With a single arch, from ridge to ridge, 

It leaps across the terrible chasm 

Yawning beneath us, black and deep, 

As if, in some convulsive spasm, 

The summits of the hills had cracked, 

And made a road for the cataract, 

That raves and rages down the steep ! • 
Lucifer (under the bridge). Ha ! ha ! 
Guide. Never any bridge but this 

Could stand across the wild abyss ; * 

All the rest, of wood or stone, 

By the Devil's hand were overthrown. 

He toppled crags from the precipice, 

And whatsoe'er was built by day 

In the night was swept away; 

None could stand but this alone. 



I 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 273 

Zucifer (under the bridge). Ha! ha! 

Guide. I showed you in the valley a boulder 

Marked with the imprint of his shoulder ,- 

As he was bearing it up this way, 

A peasant, passing, cried, " Herr Je ! " 

And the Devil dropped it in his fright, 

And vanished suddenly out of sight. 
Lucifer (under the bridge). Ha! ha! 
Guide. Abbot Giraldus of Einsiedel, 

For pilgrims on their way to Rome, 

Built this at last, with a single arch, 

Under which, on its endless march, 

Runs the river, white with foam, 

Like a thread through the eye of a needle, 

And the Devil promised to let it stand. 

Under compact and condition 

That the first living thing which crossed 

Should be surrendered into his hand, 

And be beyond redemption lost. 
Lucifer (under the bridge). Ha! ha! perdition! 
Guide. At length the bridge being all completed, 

The Abbot, standing at its head, 

Threw across it a loaf of bread, 

Which a hungry dog sprang after, 

And the rocks re-echoed with peals of laughter, 

To see the Devil thus defeated ! 

They pass on. 

Lucifer (under the bridge). Ha! ha! defeated! 
For journeys and for crimes like this 
I let the bridge stand o'er the abyss ! 

The St Gothard Pass. 

Prince Henry. This is the highest point. Two ways 
the rivers 
Leap down to different seas, and as they roll 
Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence 
Becomes a benefaction to the towns 
They visit, wandering silently among them, 
Like patriarchs old among their shining tents. 

Elsie. How bleak and bare it is ! Nothing but mosses 
Grow on these rocks. 

Prince Henry. Yet are they not forgotten; 

Beneficent Nature sends the mists to feed them. 

Elsie. See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft 
So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away 
Over the snowy peaks? It seems to me 
The body of St Catherine, borne by angels ! 



£74 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Prince Henry. Thou art St Catherine, and invisible angels 
Bear thee across these chasms and precipices, 
Lest thou shouldst dash thy feet against a stone ! 

Elsie. Would I were borne unto my grave, as she was, 
Upon angelic shoulders ! Even now 
I seem uplifted by them, light as air ! 
What sound is that? 

Prince Henry. The tumbling avalanches ! 

Elsie. How awful, yet how beautiful ! 

Prince Henry. These are 

The voices of the mountains ! Thus they ope 
Their snowy lips, and speak unto each other. 
In the primeval language, lost to man. 

Elsie. What land is this that spreads itself beneath us? 

Prince Henry. Italy! Italy! 

Elsie. Land of the Madonna ! 

How beautiful it is ! It seems a garden 
Of Paradise ! 

Prince Henry. Nay, of Gethsemane 

To thee and me, of passion and of prayer ! 
Yet once of Paradise. Long years ago 
I wandered as a youth among its bowers, 
And never from my heart has faded quite 
Its memory, that, like a summer sunset, 
Encircles with a ring of purple light 
All the horizon of my youth. 

Guide. friends ! 

The days are short, the way before us long; 
We must not linger, if we think to reach 
The inn at Belinzona before vespers! 

They pass on. 



At the foot of the Alps. A halt under the trees at noon. 

Prince Henry. Here let us pause a moment in the trembling 
Shadow and sunshine of the road-side trees, 
And, our tired horses in a group assembling, 
Inhale long draughts of this delicious breeze. 
Our fleeter steeds have distanced our attendants; 
They lag behind us with a slower pace; 
We will await them under the green pendants 
Of the great willows in this shady place. 
Ho, Barbarossa ! how thy mottled haunches 
Sweat with this canter over hill and glade ! 
Stand still, and let these overhanging branches 
Fan thy hot sides and comfort thee with shade ! 

Elsie. What a delightful landscape spreads before up, 

Marked with a whitewashed cottage here and there ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 275 

And, in luxuriant garlands drooping o'er us, 
Blossoms of grape-vines scent the sunny air. 

Prince Henry. Hark ! what sweet sounds are those whose 
accents holy- 
Fill the warm noon with music sad and sweet? 

Elsie. It is a band of pilgrims, moving slowly 
On their long journey with uncovered feet. 

Pilgrims (chaunting the Hymn of St HUdebert). 

Me receptet Sion ilia, 
Sion David urbs tranquilla, 
Cujus faber auctor lucis, 
Cujus portse lignum crucis, 
Cujus claves lingua Petri, 
Cujus cives semper lseti, 
Cujus rnuri lapis vivus, 
Cujus custos Eex festivus! 

Lucifer (as a Friar in the procession). 

Here am I, too, in the pious band, 

In the garb of a barefooted Carmelite dressed ! 

The soles of my feet are as hard and tanned 

As the conscience of old Pope Hildebrand, 

The Holy Satan, who made the wives 

Of the bishops lead such shameful lives. 

All day long I beat my breast, 

And chaunt with a most particular zest 

The Latin hymns, which I understand 

Quite as well, I think, as the rest. 

And at night such lodging in barns and sheds, 

Such a hurly-burly in country inns, 

Such a clatter of tongues in empty heads, 

Such a helter-skelter of prayers and sins ! 

Of all the contrivances of the time 

For sowing broadcast the seeds of crime, 

There is none so pleasing to me and mine 

As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine ! 
Prince Henry. If from the outward man we judge the inner. 

And cleanliness is godliness, I fear 

A hopeless reprobate, a hardened sinner, 

Must be that Carmelite now passing near. 
Lucifer. There is my German Prince again, 

Thus far on his journey to Salern, 

And the lovesick girl, whose heated brain 

Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain; 

But it 's a long road that has no turn ! 

Let them quietly hold their way, 



276 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

I have also a part in the play. 

But, first, I must act to my heart's content 

This mummery and this merriment, 

And drive this motley flock of sheep 

Into the fold, where drink and sleep 

The jolly old friars of Bene vent. 

Of a truth, it often provokes me to laugh 

To see these beggars hobble along, 

Lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaff, 

Chanting their wonderful piffand paff, 

And, to make up for not understanding the song, 

Singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong ! 

Were it not for my magic garters and staff, 

And the goblets of goodly wine I quaff, 

And the mischief I make in the idle throng, 

I should not continue the business long. 

Pilgrims (chaanting). 
In hac urbe, lux solennis, 
Ver SBternum, pax perennis ; 
In hac odor implens cselos, 
In hac semper f estum melos ! 

Prince Henry. Do you observe that monk among the train, 
Who pours from his great throat the roaring bass, 
As a cathedral spout pours out the rain, 
And this way turns his rubicund, round face ? 

Elsie. It is the same who, on the Strasburg square, 
Preached to the people in the open air. 

Prince Henry. And he has crossed o'er mountain, field, and fell, 
On that good steed, that seems to bear him well, 
The hackney of the Friars of Orders Gray, 
His own stout legs ! He, too, was in the j?lay, 
Both as King Herod and Ben Israel. 
Good morrow, Friar ! 

Friar Cutlibert. Good morrow, noble Sir ! 

Prince Henry. I speak in German, for, unless I err, 
You are a German. 

Friar Cutlibert. I cannot gainsay you. 

But by what instinct, or what secret sign, 
Meeting me here, do you straightway divine 
That northward of the Alps my country lies ? 

Prince Henry. Your accent, like St Peter's, would betray you, 
Did not your yellow beard and your blue eyes. 
Moreover, we have seen your face before, 
And heard you preach at the Cathedral door 
On Easter Sunday, in the Strasburg Square. 
We were among the crowd that gathered there, 
And saw you play the Rabbi with great skill, 
As if, by leaning o'er so many years 



I 



THE GOLDEN" LEGEND. 

To walk with little children, your own will 
Had caught a childish attitude from theirs, 
A kind of stooping in its form and gait, 
And could no longer stand erect and straight. 
Whence come you now ? 

Friar Cutlibert. From the old monastery 

Of Hirschau, in the forest ; being sent 
Upon a pilgrimage to Benevent, 
To see the image of the Virgin Mary, 
That moves its holy eyes, and sometimes speaks, 
And lets the piteous tears run down its cheeks, 
To touch the hearts of the impenitent. 

Prince Henry. 0, had I faith, as in the days gone by, 
That knew no doubt, and feared no mystery ! 

Lucifer (at a distance). Ho, Cuthbert ! Friar Cuthbert ! 

Friar Cutlibert. Farewell, Prince! 

I cannot stay to argue and convince. 

Prince Henry. This is indeed the blessed Mary's land ! 
Virgin and Mother of our dear Redeemer; 
All hearts are touched and softened at her name; 
Alike the bandit, with the bloody hand, 
The priest, the prince, the scholar, and the peasant, 
The man of deeds, the visionary dreamer, 
Pay homage to her as one ever present ! 
And even as children, who have much offended 
A too-indulgent father, in great shame, 
Penitent, and yet not daring unattended 
To go into his presence, at the gate 
Speak with their sister, and confiding wait, 
Till she goes in before and intercedes; 
So men, repenting of their evil deeds, 
And yet not venturing rashly to draw near 
With their requests an angry father's ear, 
Offer to her their prayers and their confession, 
And she for them in heaven makes intercession. 
And if our Faith had given us nothing more 
Than this example of all womanhood, 
So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good, 
So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure, 
This were enough to prove it higher and truer 
Than all the creeds the world had known before. 

Pilgrims (cliaunting afar off). 
Urbs ccelestis, urbs beata, 
Supra petram collocata, 
Urbs in portu satis tuto 
De longinquo te saluto, 
Te saluto, te suspiro, 
Te affecto, te requiro ! 



277 



278 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

The Inn at Genoa, A terrace overlooking the sea. Night. 

Prince Henry. It is the sea, it is the sea, 
In all its vague immensity, 
Fading and darkening in the distance ! 
Silent, majestical, and slow, 
The white ships haunt it to and fro 
With all their ghostly sails unfurled, 
As phantoms from another world 
Haunt the dim confines of existence ! 
But ah ! how few can comprehend 
Their signals, or to what good end 
From land to land they come and go ! 
Upon a sea more vast and dark 
The spirits of the dead embark, 
All voyaging to unknown coasts. 
We wave our farewells from the shore. 
And they depart and come no more, 
Or come as phantoms and as ghosts. 

Above the darksome sea of death 

Looms the great life that is to be, 

A land of cloud and mystery, 

A dim mirage, with shapes of men 

Long dead, and passed beyond our ken. 

Awe-struck we gaze, and hold our breath 

Till the fair pageant vanisheth, 

Leaving us in perplexity, 

And doubtful whether it has been 

A vision of the world unseen, 

Or a bright image of our own 

Against the sky in vapours thrown. 

Lucifer {singing from the sea). Thou didst not make it, 
thou canst not mend it, 
But thou hast the power to end it. 
The sea is silent, the sea is discreet, 
Deep it lies at thy very feet; 
There is no confessor like unto Death I 
Thou canst not see^him, but he is near; 
Thou needest not whisper above thy breath, 
And he will hear; 
He will answer the questions, 
The vague surmises and suggestions, 
That fill thy soul with doubt and fear ! 

Prince Henry. The fisherman, who lies afloat, 
With shadowy sail, in yonder boat, 
Is singing softly to the Night I 
But do I comprehend aright 
The meaning of the words he sung 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 279 

So sweetly in his native tongue? 

Ah, yes ! the sea is still and deep. 

All things within its bosom sleep l 

A single step, and all is o'er; 

A plunge, a bubble, and no more; 

And thou, dear Elsie, wilt be free 

From martyrdom and agony. 
Elsie (coming from her chamber upon the terrace). The 
night is calm and cloudless, 

And still as still can be. 

And the stars come forth to listen 

To the music of the sea. 

They gather, and gather, and gather, 

Until they crowd the sky, 

And listen, in breathless silence, 

To the solemn litany. 

It begins in rocky caverns, 

As a voice that chaunts alone 

To the pedals of the organ 

In monotonous undertone ; 

And anon from shelving beaches. 

And shallow sands beyond, 

In snow-white robes uprising 

The ghostly choirs respond. 

And sadly and unceasing 

The mournful voice sings on, 

And the snow-white choirs still answer 

Christe eleison ! 
Prince Heiwy. Angel of God! thy finer sense perceives 

Celestial and perpetual harmonies ! 

Thy purer soul, that trembles and believes, 

Hears the archangel's trumpet in the breeze, 

And where the forest rolls, or ocean heaves, 

Cecilia's organ sounding in the seas, 

And tongues of prophets speaking in the leaves. 

But I hear discord only and despair, 

And whispers as of demons in the air ! 



11 Padrone. The wind upon our quarter lies, 
And on before the freshening gale, 
That fills the snow-white lateen sail, 
Swiftly our light felucca flies. 
.Around, the billows burst and foam; 
They lift her o'er the sunken rock, 
They beat her sides with many a shock, 
And then upon their flowing dome 
They poise her, like a weathercock ! 
Between us and the western skies 



280 THE GOLDEN LEGEND, 

The hills of Corsica arise ; 
Eastward, in yonder long, blue line, 
The summits of the Apennine, 
And southward, and still far away, 
Salerno, on its sunny bay. 
You cannot see it, where it lies. 

Prince Henry. Ah, would that never more mine eyes 
Might see its towers by night or day ! 

Elsie. Behind us, dark and awfully, 

There comes a cloud out of the sea, 
That bears the form of a hunted deer, 
With hide of brown, and hoofs of black, 
And antlers laid upon its back, 
And fleeing fast and wild with fear, 
As if the hounds were on its track ! 

Prince Henry. Lo ! while we gaze, it breaks and falls 
In shapeless masses, like the walls 
Of a burnt city. Broad and red 
The fires of the descending sun 
Glare through the windows, and o'erhead, 
Athwart the vapours, dense and dun, 
Long shafts of silvery light arise, 
Like rafters that support the skies ! 

Elsie. See ! from its summit the lurid levin 
Flashes downward without warning, 
As Lucifer, son of the morning, 
Fell from the battlements of heaven ! 

II Padrone. I must entreat you, friends, below ! 
The angry storm begins to blow, 
For the weather changes with the moon. 
All this morning, until noon, 
We had baffling winds, and sudden flaws 
Struck the sea with their cat's-paws. 
Only a little hour ago 
I was whistling to Saint Autonio 
For a capful of wind to fill our sail, 
And instead of a breeze he has sent a gale. 
Last night I saw St Elmo's stars, 
With their glimmering lanterns, all at play 
On the tops of the masts and the tips of the spars ; 
And I knew we should have foul weather to-day. 
Cheerly, my hearties ! yo heave ho ! 
Brail up the mainsail, and let her go 
As the winds will and Saint Antonio ! 

Do you see that Livornese felucca, 
That vessel to the windward yonder, 
Running with her gunwale under ? 
I was looking when the wind o'ertook her. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 281 

She had all sail set, and the only wonder 
Is, that at once the strength of the blast 
Did not carry away her mast. 
She is a galley of the Gran Duca, 
That, through the fear of the Algerines, 
Convoys those lazy brigantines, 
Laden with wine and oil from Lucca. 
Now all is ready, high and low; 
Blow, blow, good Saint Antonio ! 

Ha ! that is the first dash of the rain, 
With a sprinkle of spray above the rails, 
Just enough to moisten our sails, 
And make them ready for the strain. 
See how she leaps, as the blasts o'ertake her, 
And speeds away with a bone in her mouth ! 
Now keep her head toward the south, 
And there is no danger of bank or breaker. 
With the breeze behind us, on we go ; 
Not too much, good Saint Antonio i 



VL 

The School of Salerno. A travelling Scholastic affixing his Theses tc 
the gate of the College. 

Scholastic. There, that is my gauntlet, my banner, my shield, 
Hung up as a challenge to all the field ! 
One hundred and twenty-five propositions, 
Which I will maintain with the sword of the tongue 
Against all disputants, old and young. 
Let us see if doctors or dialecticians 
Will dare to dispute my definitions, 
Or attack any one of my learned theses. 
Here stand I ; the end shall be as God pleases. 
I think I have proved, by profound researches, 
The error of all those doctrines so vicious 
Of the old Areopagite Dionysius, 
That are making such terrible work in the churches, 
By Michael the Stammerer sent from the East, 
And done into Lathi by that Scottish beast, 
Erigena Johannes, who dares to maintain, 
In the face of the truth, the error infernal, 
That the universe is and must be eternal ; 
At first laying down, as a fact fundamental, 
That nothing with God can be accidental ; 
Then asserting that God before the creation 
Could not have existed, because it is plain 
That, had he existed, he would have created ; 



282 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Which is begging the question that should be debated, 

And moveth me less to anger than laughter. 

All nature, he holds, is a respiration 

Of the Spirit of God, who, in breathing, hereafter 

Will inhale it into his bosom again, 

So that nothing but God alone will remain. 

And therein he contradicteth himself; 

For he opens the whole discussion by stating, 

That God can only exist in creating. 

That question I think I have laid on the shelf ! 

He goes out. Two Doctors come in disputing, and followed hy 
Pupils. 

Doctor Serafino. I, with the Doctor Seraphic, maintain, 

That a word which is only conceived in the brain 

Is a type of eternal Generation ; 

The spoken word is the Incarnation. 
Doctor Cherubino. What do I care for the Doctor Seraphic, 

With all his wordy chaffer and traffic ? 
Doctor Serafino. You make but a paltry show of resistance : 

Universals have no real existence ! 
Doctor Cherubino. Your words are but idle and empty chatter;! 

Ideas are eternally joined to matter! 
Doctor Serafino. May the Lord have mercy on your position, 

You wretched, wrangling culler of herbs ! 
Doctor Cherubino. May he send your soul to eternal perdition, 

For your Treatise on the Irregular Terbs 1 

They rush out fighting. Two Scholars come m. 

First Scholar. Monte Cassino, then, is your College. 

What think you of ours here at Salern ? 
Second Scholar. To tell the truth, I arrived so lately, 

I hardly yet have had time to discern. 

So much, at least, I am bound to acknowledge : 

The air seems healthy, the buildings stately, 

And on the whole I like it greatly. 
First Scholar. Yes, the air is sweet ; the Calabrian hills 

Send us down puffs of mountain air ; 

And in summer-time the sea-breeze fills 

With its coolness cloister, and court, and square. 

Then at every season of the year 

There are crowds of guests and travellers here ; 

Pilgrims, and mendicant friars, and traders 

From the Levant, with figs and wine, 

And bands of wounded and sick Crusaders, 

Coming back from Palestine. 
Second Scholar. And what are the studies you pursue ? 

What is the course you here go through ? 
First Scholar. The first three years of the college course 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 2 S3 

Are given to Logic alone, as the source 

Of all that is noble, and wise, and true. 
Second Scholar. That seems rather strange, I must confess, 

In a Medical School ; yet, nevertheless, 

You doubtless have reasons for that. 
First Scholar. 0, yes ! 

For none but a clever dialectician 

Can hope to become a great physician ; 

That has been settled long ago. 

Logic makes an important part 

Of the mystery of the healing art ; 

For without it how could you hope to show 

That nobody knows so much as you know ? 

After this there are five years more 

Devoted wholly to medicine, 

With lectures on chirurgical lore, 

And dissections of the bodies of swine, 

As likest the human form divine. 
Second Scholar. What are the books now most in vogue? 
First Scholar. Quite an extensive catalogue; 

Mostly, however, books of our own; 

As Gariopontus' Passionarius, 

And the writings of Matthew Platearius ; 

And a volume universally known 

As the Regimen of the School of Salern, 

For Robert of Normandy written in terse 

And very elegant Latin verse. 

Each of these writings has its turn. 

And when at length we have finished these. 

Then comes the struggle for degrees, 

With all the oldest and ablest critics ; 

The public thesis and disputation, 

Question, and answer, and explanation 

Of a passage out of Hippocrates, 

Or Aristotle's Analytics. 

There the triumphant Magister stands ! 

A book is solemnly placed in his hands, 

On which he swears to follow the rule 

And ancient forms of the good old School; 

To report if any confectionarius 

Mingles his drugs with matters various, 

And to visit his patients twice a-day, 

And once in the night, if they live in town, 

And if they are poor, to take no pay. 

Having faithfully promised these, 

His head is crowned with a laurel crown; 

A kiss on his cheek, a ring on his hand, 

The Magister Artium et Physices 

Goes forth from the school like a lord of the land. 



284 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

And row, as we have the whole morning before lie, 
Let us go in, if you make no objection, 
And listen awhile to a learned prelection 
On Marcus Aurelius Cassiodorus. 

They go in. Enter Lucifer as a Doctor. 

Lucifer. This is the great School of Salem ! 
A land of wrangling and of quarrels, 
Of brains that seethe and hearts that burn, 
Where every emulous scholar hears, 
In every breath that comes to his ears, 
The rustling of another's laurels ! 
The air of the place is called salubrious; 
The neighbourhood of Vesuvius lends it 
An odour volcanic, that rather mends it, 
And the buildings have an aspect lugubrious, 
That inspires a feeling of awe and terror 
Into the heart of the beholder, 
And befits such an ancient homestead of error, 
Where the old falsehoods moulder and smoulder, 
And yearly by many hundred hands 
Are carried away, in the zeal of youth, 
And sown like tares, in the field of truth, 
To blossom and ripen in other lands. 

What have we here, affixed to the gate? 
The challenge of some scholastic wight, 
Who wishes to hold a public debate 
On sundry questions wrong or right ! 
Ah, now this is my great delight ! 
For I have often observed of late 
That such discussions end in a fight. 
Let us see what the learned wag maintains 
With such a prodigal waste of brains. 

Reads. 

" Whether angels in moving from place to place 
Pass through the intermediate space. 
Whether God himself is the author of evil, 
Or whether that is the work of the Devil. 
When, where, and wherefore Lucifer fell, 
And whether he now is chained in hell." 

I think I can answer that question well ! 
So long as the boastful human mind 
Consents in such mills as this to grind, 
I sit very firmly upon my throne! 
Of a truth it almost makes me laugh, 
Tb see men leaving the golden grain 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 285 

To gather in piles the pitiful chaff 

That old Peter Lombard thrashed with his brain, 

To have it caught up and tossed again 

On the horns of the Dumb Ox of Cologne ! 

But my guests approach ! There is in the air 

A fragrance, like that of the Beautiful Garden 

Of Paradise, in the clays that were ! 

An odour ol innocence, and of prayer, 

And of love, and faith that never fails, 

Such as the fresh young heart exhales 

Before it begins to wither and harden ! 

I cannot breathe such an atmosphere ! 

My soul is filled with a nameless fear, 

That, after all my trouble and pain, 

After all my restless endeavour, 

The youngest, fairest soul of the twain, 

The most ethereal, most divine, 

Will escape from my hands for ever and ever. 

But the other is already mine ! 

Let him live to corrupt his race, 

Breathing among them, with every breath 

Weakness, selfishness, and the base 

And pusillanimous fear of death. 

I know his nature, and I know 

That of all who in my ministry 

Wander the great earth to and fro, 

And on my errands come and go, 

The safest and subtlest are such as he. 

Enter Pkince Henry and Elsie, with Attendants. 

Prince Henry. Can you direct us to Friar Angelo ? 

Lucifer. He stands before you. 

Prince Henry. Then you know our purpose, 

I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, and this 

The maiden that I spake of in my letters. 
Lucifer. It is a very grave and solemn business ! 

We must not be precipitate. Does she 

Without compulsion, of her own free will, 

Consent to this ? 
Prince Henry. Against all opposition, 

Against all prayers, entreaties, protestations. 

She will not be persuaded. 
Lucifer. That is strange ! 

Have you thought well of it ? 
Elsie. I come not heiv. 

To argue, but to die. Your business is not 

To question, but to kill me. I am ready. 



286 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

I am impatient to be gone from here 
Ere any thoughts of earth disturb again 
The spirit of tranquillity within me. 

Prince Henry. Would I had not come here! Would I were 
dead, 
And thou wert in thy cottage in the forest, 
And hadst not known me ! Why have I done this? 
Let me go back and die. 

Elsie. It cannot be; 

Not if these cold, flat stones on which we tread 
Were coulters heated white, and yonder gateway 
Flamed like a furnace with a sevenfold heat. 
I must fulfil my purpose. 

Prince Henry. I forbid it ! 

Not one step farther. For I only meant 
To put thus far thy courage to the proof. 
It is enough. I, too, have courage to die, 
For thou hast taught me ! 

Elsie. my Prince ! remember 

Your promises. Let me fulfil my errand. 
You do not look on life and death as I do, 
There are two angels, that attend unseen 
Each one of us, and in great books record 
Our good and evil deeds. He who writes down 
The good ones, after every action closes 
His volume, and ascends with it to God. 
The other keeps his dreadful day-book open 
Till sunset, that we may repent; which doing, 
The record of the action fades away, 
And leaves a line of white across the page. 
Now if my act be good, as I believe, 
It cannot be recalled. It is already 
Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed accomplished. 
The rest is yours. Why wait you? I am ready. 

To her Attendants. 

Weep not, my friends ! rather rejoice with me. 
I shall not feel the pain, but shall be gone, 
And you will have another friend in heaven. 
Then start not at the creaking of the door 
Through which I pass. I see what lies beyond it. 

To Prince Henry. 

And you, prince ! bear back my benison 

Unto my father's house, and all within it. 

This morning in the church I prayed for them, 

After confession, after absolution, 

When my whole soul was white, I prayed for them. 

God will take care of them, they need me not. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 287 

And in your life let my remembrance linger, 

As something not to trouble and disturb it, 

But to complete it, adding life to life. 

And if at times beside the evening fire 

You see my face among the other faces, 

Let it not be regarded as a ghost 

That haunts your house, but as a guest that loves yen. 

Nay, even as one of your own family, 

Without whose presence there were something wanting, 

I have no more to say. Let us go in. 
Prince Henry. Friar Angelo ! I charge you on your life, 

Believe not what she says, for she is mad, 

And comes here not to die, but to be healed. 
Elsie. Alas ! Prince Henry ! 
Lucifer. Come with me; this way. 

Elsie goes in with Lucifer, who thrusts Prince Henry lack and 
closes the door. 

Prince Henry. Gone ! and the light of all my life gone with 
her! 
A sudden darkness falls upon the world i 
0, what a vile and abject thing am I, 
That purchase length of days at such a cost ! 
Not by her death alone, but by the death 
Of all that 's good and true and noble in me ! 
All manhood, excellence, and self-respect, 
All love, and faith, and hope, and heart are dead ! 
All my divine nobility of nature 
By this one act is forfeited for ever. 
I am a prince in nothing but in name ! 

To the Attendants. 

Why did you let this horrible deed be done? 
Why did you not lay hold on her, and keep her 
From self-destruction ? Angelo ! murderer I 

Struggles at the door, hut cannot open it, 
Elsie (within). Farewell, dear Prince ! farewell ! 
Prince Henry. Unbar the door ! 

Lucifer. It is too late ! 
Prince Henry. It shall not be too late ! 

They burst the door open and rush in. 

The cottage in the Odenwald. Ursula spinning. Summer after- 
noon. A table spread. 

Ursula. I have marked it well — it must be true, — 
Death never takes one alone, but two ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Whenever he enters in at a door, 
Under roof of gold or roof of thatch, 
He always leaves it upon the latch, 
And comes again ere the year is o'er. 
Never one of a household only ! 
Perhaps it is a mercy of God, 
Lest the dead there under the sod, 
In the land of strangers, should be lonely ! 
Ah me ! I think I am lonelier here ! 
It is hard to go, — but harder to stay ! 
Were it not for the children, I should pray 
That Death would take me within the year ! 
And Gottlieb ! — he is at work all day, 
In the sunny field, or the forest murk, 
But I know that his thoughts are far away. 
I know that his heart is not in his work ! 
And when he comes home to me at night 
He is not cheery, but sits and sighs, 
And I see the great tears in his eyes, 
And try to be cheerful for his sake. 
Only the children's hearts are light. 
Mine is weary, and ready to break. 
God help us! I hope we have done right; 
We thought we were acting for the best ! 

Looking through the open door. 

Who is it coming under the trees? 

A man, in the prince's livery dressed ! 

He looks about him with doubtful face, 

As if uncertain of the place. 

He stops at the bee-hives; — now he sees 

The garden gate; — he is going past! 

Can he be afraid of the bees? 

No; he is coming in at last ! 

He fills my heart with strange alarm ! 

Enter a Forester, 
Forester. Is this the tenant Gottlieb's farm? 
Ursula. This is his farm, and I his wife. 

Pray sit. What may your business be ? 
Forester. News from the Prince ! 
Ursula. Of death or life? 

Forester. You put your questions eagerly ! 
Ursula. Answer me, then ! How is the Prince? 
Forester. I left him only two hours since 

Homeward returning down the river, 

As strong and well as if God, the Giver, 

Had given him back his youth again. 
Ursula {despairing). Then EUsie, my poor child, is dead ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Forester. That, my good woman, I have not said, 

Don't cross the bridge till you come to it, 

Is a proverb old, and of excellent wit. 
Ursula. Keep me no longer in this pain ! 
Forester. It is true your daughter is no more; — 

That is, the peasant she was before. 
Ursula. Alas ! I am simple and lowly bred, 

I am poor, distracted, and forlorn. 

And it is not well that you of the court 

Should mock me thus, and make a sport 

Of a joyless mother whose child is dead, 

For you, too, were of mother born ! 
Forester. Your daughter lives, and the Prince is well I 

You will learn ere long how it all befell. 

Her heart for a moment never failed; 

But when they reached Salerno's gate. 

The Prince's nobler self prevailed, 

And saved her for a nobler fate. 

And he was healed, in his despair, 

By the touch of St Matthew's sacred bones ; 

Though I think the long ride in the open air, 

That pilgrimage over stocks and stones, 

In the miracle must come in for a share ! 
Ursula. Virgin ! who lovest the poor and lowly, 

If the loud cry of a mother's heart 

Can ever ascend to where thou art, 

Into thy blessed hands and holy 

[Receive my prayer of praise and thanksgiving. 

Let the hands that bore our Saviour bear it 

Into the awful presence of God; 

For thy feet with holiness are shod, 

And if thou bearest it he will hear it. 

Our child who was dead again is living! 
Forester. I did not tell you she was dead; 

If you thought so 'twas no fault of mine; 

At this very moment, while I speak, 

They are sailing homeward clown the Rhine, 

In a splendid barge with golden prow, 

And decked with banners white and red 

As the colours on your daughter's cheek. 

They call her the Lady Alicia now; 

For the Prince in Salerno made a vow 

That Elsie only would he wed. 
Ursula. Jesu Maria ! what a change ! 

All seems to me so weird and strange ! 
Forester. I saw her standing on the deck, 

Beneath an awning cool and shady; 

Her cap of velvet could not hold 

The tresses of her hair of gold, 



289 



290 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

That flowed and floated like the stream, 
And fell in masses down her neck. 
As fair and lovely did she seem 
As in a story or a dream 
Some beautiful and foreign lady. 
And the Prince looked so grand and proud, 
And waved his hand thus to the crowd 
That gazed and shouted from the shore, 
All down the river, long and loud. 
Ursula. We shall behold our child once more; 
She is not dead ! She is not dead ! 
God, listening, must have overheard 
The prayers, that, without sound or word, 
Our hearts in secrecy have said ! 
O, bring me to her; for mine eyes 
Are hungry to behold her face; 
My very soul within me cries ; 
My very hands seem to caress her, 
To see her, gaze at her, and bless her ; 
Dear Elsie, child of God and grace ! 

Goes out toivard the garden. 

Forester. There goes the good woman out of her head ; 
And Gottlieb's supper is waiting here ; 
A very capacious flagon of beer, 
And a very portentous loaf of bread. 
One would say his grief did not much oppress him. 
Here 's to the health of the Prince, God bless him ! 

He drinks. 

Ha ! it buzzes and stings like a hornet ! 
And what a scene there, through the door ! 
The forest behind and the garden before, 
And midway an old man of threescore, 
With a wife and children that caress him. 
Let me try still further to cheer and adorn it 
With a merry, echoing blast of my cornet ! 

Goes out, blowing his horn. 



The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine. Prince Henry and Elsie 
standing on the terrace at evening. The sound of bells heard from 
a distance. 

Prince Henry. We are alone. The wedding guests 
Eide down the hill, with plumes and cloaks, 
And the descending dark invests 
The Niederwald, and all the nests 
Among its hoar and haunted oaks. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Elsie. What bells are those, that ring so slow, 

So mellow, musical, and low ? 
Prince Henry. They are the bells of Geisenheini, 

That with their melancholy chime 

Ring out the curfew of the sun. 
Elsie. Listen, beloved. 
Prince Henry. They are done ! 

Dear Elsie ! many years ago 

Those same soft bells at eventide 

Rang in the ears of Charlemagne, 

As, seated by Fastrada's side 

At Ingelheim, in all his pride, 

He heard their sound with secret pain. 
Elsie. Their voices only speak to me 

Of peace and deep tranquillity, 

And endless confidence in thee ! 
Prince Henry. Thou knowest the story of her ring, 

How, when the court went back to Aix, 

Fastrada died ; and how the king 

Sat watching by her night and day, 

Till into one of the blue lakes, 

Which water that delicious land, 

They cast the ring, drawn from her hand ; 

And the great monarch sat serene 

And sad beside the fated shore, 

Nor left the land for ever more. 
Elsie. That was true love. 
Prince Henry. For him the queen 

Ne'er did what thou hast done for me. 
Elsie. Wilt thou as fond and faithful be ? 

Wilt thou so love me after death ? 
Prince Henry. In life's delight, in death's dismay, 

In storm and sunshine, night and day, 

In health, in sickness, in decay, 

Here and hereafter, I am thine ! 

Thou hast Fastrada's ring. Beneath 

The calm, blue waters of thine eyes, 

Deep in thy steadfast soul it lies, 

And, undisturbed by this world's breath, 

With magic light its jewels shine ! 

This golden ring, which thou hast worn 

Upon thy finger since the morn, 

Is but a symbol and a semblance, 

An outward fashion, a remembrance, 

Of what thou wearest within unseen, 

my Fastrada, my queen ! 

Behold! the hill-tops all aglow 

With purple and with amethyst; 

While the whole valley deep below 



291 



292 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Is filled, and seems to overflow, 
"With a fast-rising tide of mist. 
The evening air grows damp and chill ; 
Let us go in. 

Elsie. Ah, not so soon. 

See yonder fire ! It is the moon 
Slow rising o'er the eastern hill. 
It glimmers on the forest tips, 
And through the dewy foliage drips 
In little rivulets of light, 
And makes the heart in love with night. 

Prince Henry. Oft on this terrace, when the day 
Was closing, have I stood and gazed, 
And seen the landscape fade away, 
And the white vapours rise and drown 
Hamlet and vineyard, tower and town, 
While far above the hill-tops blazed. 
But then another hand than thine 
Was gently held and clasped in mine ; 
Another head upon my breast 
Was laid, as thine is now, at rest. 
Why dost thou lift those tender eyes 
With so much sorrow and surprise? 
A minstrel's not a maiden's hand, 
Was that which in my own was pressed. 
A manly form usurped thy pla«e, 
A beautiful, but bearded face, 
That now is in the Holy Land, 
Yet in my memory from afar 
Is shining on us like a star. 
But linger not. For while I speak, 
A sheeted spectre white and tall, 
The cold mist climbs the castle wall, 
And lays his hand upon thy cheek ! 

They go in. 



EPILOGUE. 

THE TWO RECORDING ANGELS ASCENDING. 

The Angel of Good Deeds, with closed ooolc. 

God sent his messenger the rain, 
And said unto the mountain brook, 
" Rise up, and from thy caverns look 
And leap, with naked, snow-white feet, 
From the cool hills into the heat 
Of the broad, arid plain." 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

God sent his messenger of faith, 
And whispered in the maiden's heart, 
" Eise up, and look from where thou art, 
And scatter with unselfish hands 
Thy freshness on the barren sands 
And solitudes of Death." 

beauty of holiness, 

Of self -forgetf ulness, of lowliness ! 

power of meekness, 

"Whose very gentleness and weakness 

Are like the yielding, but irresistible air ! 

Upon the pages 

Of the sealed volume that I bear, 

The deed divine 

Is written in characters of gold, 

That never shall grow old, 

But through all ages 

Burn and shine, 

With soft effulgence ! 

God ! it is thy indulgence 

That fills the world with the bliss 

Of a good deed like this ! 

The Angel of Evil Deeds, with open booh 

Not yet, not yet 

Is the red sun wholly set, 

But evermore recedes, 

While open still I bear 

The Book of Evil Deeds, 

To let the breathings of the upper air 

Visit its pages and erase 

The records from its face ! 

Fainter and fainter as I gaze 

In the broad blaze 

The glimmering landscape shines, 

And below me the black river 

Is hidden by wreaths of vapour ! 

Fainter and fainter the black lines 

Begin to quiver 

Along the whitening surface of the paper; 

Shade after shade 

The terrible words grow faint and fade, 

And in their place 

Runs a white space ! 

Down goes the sun ! 
But the soul of one, 



293 



294 THE GOLDEN LEGEND 

Who by repentance 

Has escaped the dreadful sentence, 

Shines bright below me as I look. 

It is the end ! 

"With closed Book 

To God do I ascend. 

Lo ! over the rnountain steeps 

A dark, gigantic shadow sweeps 

Beneath my feet ; 

A blackness inwardly brightening 

With sullen heat, 

As a storm-cloud lurid with lightning. 

And a cry of lamentation, 

Repeated and again repeated, 

Deep and loud 

As the reverberation 

Of cloud answering unto cloud, 

Swells and rolls away in the distance. 

As if the sheeted 

Lightning retreated, 

Baffled and thwarted by the wind's resistance. 

It is Lucifer, 

The son of mystery; 

And since God suffers him to be, 

He, too, is God's minister, 

And labours for some good 

By us not understood ! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 

l™™\ Students of Alcala. 

BOKO™ 1 " 1 "} Gentlemen of Madnd. 

The Archbishop of Toledo. 
A Cardinal. 

Beltran Cruzado Count of the Gipsies. 

Bartolome Roman A young Gipsy. 

The Padre Cura of Guadarrama. 

Pedro Crespo Alcalde. 

Pancho Alguacil. 

Francisco Lara's Sen-ant. 

Chispa Victorian's Servant. 

Baltasar Innlceeper. 

Preciosa A Gipsy girl. 

Angelica A poor girl. 

Martina The Padre Cura's Niece, 

Dolores Preciosa' s Maid. 

Gipsies, Musicians, &c. 



ACT I. 



Scene I. The Count of Lara's Chambers. Night. The Count 
in his dressing-gown, smoking and conversing with Don Carlos. 

Lara. You were not at the play to-night, Don Carlos ; 
How happened it ? 

Don C. I had engagements elsewhere. 

Pray who was there? 

Lara. Why, all the town and court. 

The house was crowded ; and the busy fans 
Among the gaily-dressed and perfumed ladies 
Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers. 
There was the Countess of Medina Celi ; 
The Goblin Lady with her Phantom Lover, 



£96 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Her Lindo Don Diego; Dona Sol, 
And Dona Serafina, and her cousins. 

Don G, What was the play ? 

Lara. It was a dull affair; 

One of those comedies in which you see, 
As Lope says, the history of the world 
Brought down from Genesis to the Day of Judgment. 
There were three duels fought in the first act, 
Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds, 
Laying their hands upon their hearts, and saying, 
" 0, I am dead ! " a lover in a closet, 
An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, 
A Dona Inez with a black mantilla, 
Followed at twilight by an unknown lover, 
Who looks intently where he knows she is not ! 

Don C. Of course, the Preciosa danced to-night? 

Lara. And never better. Every footstep fell 
As lightly as a sunbeam on the water. 
I think the girl extremely beautiful. 

Don C. Almost beyond the privilege of woman ! 
I saw her in the Prado yesterday. 
Her step was royal, — queen-like, — and her face 
As beautiful as a saint's in Paradise. 

Lara. May not a saint fall from her Paradise, 
And be no more a saint? 

Don O. Why do you ask ? 

Ijara. Because I have heard it said this angel fell, 
And, though she is a virgin outwardly, 
Within she is a sinner ; like those panels 
Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks 
Painted in convents, with the Virgin Mary 
On the outside, and on the inside Venus ! 

Don C. You do her wrong ; indeed, you do her wrong ! 
She is as virtuous as she is fair. 

Lara. How credulous you are ! Why look you, friend, 
There 's not a virtuous woman in Madrid, 
In this whole city ! And would you persuade me 
That a mere dancing-girl, who shows herself, 
Nightly, half -naked, on the stage, for money, 
And with voluptuous motions fires the blood 
Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held 
A model for her virtue ? 

Don C. You forget 

She is a Gipsy girl. 

Lara. And therefore won 

The easier. 

Don 0. Nay, not to be won at all J 
The only virtue that a Gipsy prizes 
Is chastity. That is her only virtue. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 297 

Dearer tlian life she holds it. I remember 
A Gipsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd, 
Whose craft was to betray the young and fair; 
And yet this woman was above all bribes. 
And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty, 
The wild and wizard beauty of her race, 
Offered her gold to be what she made others, 
She turned upon him, with a look of scorn, 
And smote him in the face ! 

Lara. And does that prove 

That Preciosa is above suspicion? 

Don C. It proves a nobleman may be repulsed 
When he thinks conquest easy. I believe 
That woman, in her deepest degradation, 
Holds something sacred, something undefiled, 
Some pledge and keepsake of her higher nature, 
And, like the diamond in the dark, retains 
Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light ! 

Lara. Yet Preciosa would have taken the gold. 

Don C. (rising.) I do not think so. 

Lara. I am sure of it. 

But why this haste ? Stay yet a little longer, 
And fight the battles of your Dulcinea. 

Don C. 'Tis late. I must begone, for if I stay 
You will not be persuaded. 

Lara. Yes; persuade me. 

Don C. No one so deaf as he who will not hear ! 

Lara. No one so blind as he who will not see ! 

Don C. And so good night. I wish you pleasant dreams. 
And greater faith in woman. [Exit 

Lara. Greater faith I 

I have the greatest faith; for I believe 
Victorian is her lover. I believe 
That I shall be to-morrow ; and thereafter 
Another, and another, and another, 
Chasing each other through her zodiac, 
As Taurus chases Aries. 

Enter Fkancisco vnih a casket. 
Well, Francisco, 
What speed with Preciosa? 

Fran. None, my lord. 

She sends your jewels back, and bids me tell you 
She is not to be purchased by your gold. 

Lara. Then I will try some other way to win her. 
Pray, dost thou know Victorian? 

Fran. Yes, my lord; 

I saw him at the jeweller's to-day. 

Lara. What was he doing there? 



298 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Fran. I saw him buy 

A golden ring, that had a ruby in it 

Lara. Was there another like it ? 

Fran. One so like it 

I could not choose between them. 

Lara. It is well. 

To-morrow morning bring that ring to me. 
Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. [Exeunt 

Scene II. A Street in Madrid. Enter Chispa, followed by 
Musicians, ivith a bagpipe, guitars, and other instruments. 

Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas! and a plague on all lovers whc 
ramble about at night, drinking the elements, instead of sleeping 
quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his cemetery, say I; and 
every friar to his monastery. Now, here 's my master, Victorian, 
yesterday a cow-keeper, and to-day a gentleman ; yesterday a student, 
and to-day a lover; and I must be up later than the nightingale, for 
as the abbot sings so must the sacristan respond. God grant he may 
soon be married, for then shall all this serenading cease. Ay, 
marry! marry! marry! Mother, what does marry mean? It means 
to spin, to bear children, and to weep, my daughter ! And, of a 
truth, there is something more in matrimony than the wedding-ring. 
(To the musicians.) And now, gentlemen, Pax vobiscum ! as the ass 
said to the cabbages. Pray, walk this way ; and don't hang down 
your heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father and a ragged 
shirt. Now, look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life of crickets ; 
you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I beseech you, 
for this once be not loud, but pathetic ; for it is a serenade to a 
damsel in bed, and not to the man in the Moon. Your object is not 
to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling dreams. 
Therefore, each shall not play upon his instrument as if it were the 
only one in the universe, but gently, and with a certain modesty, 
according with the others. Pray, how may I call thy name, friend ? 

First Mus. Gerdnimo Gil, at your service. 

Chispa. Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, Ger<5- 
nimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee ? 

First Mus. Why so ? 

Chispa. Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an unplea- 
sant day with those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I have seen 
thee at the tavern, and if thou canst run as fast as thou canst drink, 
I should like to hunt hares with thee. What instrument is that? 

First Mus. An Aragonese bagpipe. 

Chispa. Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper of Bujalance, whc 
asked a maravedi for playing, and ten for leaving off? 

First Mus. No, your honour. 

Chispa. I am glad of it. What other instruments have we ? 

Second and Third Mus. We play the bandurria. 

Chispa. A pleasing instrument. And thou ? 




Serenade. 
Moon of, the summer night ! 

Far ilowjj you wester steeps 
Sink, sink in silver li^ht ! 
She sleeos. 
My lady sleeps ! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 299 I 

Fourth Mus. The fife. 

Chispa. I like it; it has a cheerful, soul-stirring sound, that soars 
op to my lady's window like the song of a swallow. And you 
others ? 

Other Mus. We are the singers, please your honour. 

Chispa. You are too many. Do you think we are going to sing 
mass in the cathedral of Cordova ? Four men can make but little use 
of one shoe, and I see not how you can all sing in one song. But 
follow me along the garden wall. That is the way my master climbs 
to the lady's window. It is by the Yicar's skirts that the devil 
climbs into the belfry. Come, follow me, and make no noise. [Exeunt 

Scene III. Prectosa's Chamber. She stands at the open window. 

Free. How slowly through the lilac-scented air 
Descends the tranquil moon ! Like thistle-down 
The vapoury clouds float in the peaceful sky; 
And sweetly from yon hollow vaults of shade 
The nightingales breathe out their souls in song. 
And hark ! what songs of love, what soul-like sounds, 
Answer them from below ! 

SERENADE. 

Stars of the summer night ! 

Far in yon azure deeps, 
Hide, hide your golden light 1 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps 1 

Sleeps ! 

Moon of the summer night ! 

Far down yon western steeps 
Sink, sink in silver light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps I 

Sleeps! 

Wind of the summer night ! 

Where yonder woodbine creeps, 
Fold, fold thy pinions light 1 

She sleeps 1 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps! 

Dreams of the summer night ! 

Tell her, her lover keeps 
Watch ! while in siumbers light 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 



Enter Victorian by the balcony. 

Vict. Poor, little dove! Thou tremblest like a leaf I 
Free. I am so frightened \ 'Tis for thee I tremble ! 

I hate to have thee climb that wall by night ! 

Did no one see thee? 



300 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Vict. None, my love, but thou. 

Prec. 'Tis very dangerous; and when thou art gone 
I chide myself for letting thee come here 
Thus stealthily by night. Where hast thou been? 
Since yesterday I have no news from thee. 

Vict. Since yesterday I 've been in Alcala\ 
Ere long the time will come, sweet Preciosa, 
When that dull distance shall no more divide us; 
And I no more shall scale thy wall by night 
To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now. 

Prec. An honest thief to steal but what thou givest. 

Vict. And we shall sit together unmolested, 
And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue, 
As singing birds from one bough to another. 

Prec. That were a life indeed to make time envious ! 
I knew that thou wouldst visit me to-night ! 
I saw thee at the play. 

Vict. Sweet child of air ! 

Never did I behold thee so attired 
And garmented in beauty as to-night ! 
What hast thou done to make thee look so fair? 

Prec. Am I not always fair? 

Vict. Ay, and so fair 

That I am jealous of all eyes that see thee, 
And wish that they were blind. 

Prec. I heed them not; 

When thou art present, I see none but thee ! 

Vict. There 's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes 
Something from thee, that makes it beautiful. 

Prec. And yet thou leavest me for those dusty books. 

Vict. Thou comest between me and those books too often ! 
I see thy face in everything I see ! 
The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks, 
The canticles are changed to sarabands, 
And with the learned doctors of the schools 
I see thee dance cachuchas. 

Prec. In good sooth, 

I dance with learned doctors of the schools 
To-morrow morning. 

Vict. And with whom, I pray? 

Prec. A grave and reverend Cardinal, and his Grace 
The Archbishop of Toledo. 

Vict. What mad jest 

Is this? 

Prec. It is no jest; indeed it is not. 

Vict. Prithee, explain thyself. 

Prec. Why, simply thus. 

Thou knowest the Pope has sent here into Spain 
To put a stop to dances on the stage. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 301 

Vict. I have heard it whispered. 

Prec. Now the Cardinal, 

Who for this purpose comes, would fain behold 
With his own eyes these dances ; and the Archbishop 
Has sent for me 

Vict. That thou may'st dance before them ! 

Now viva la cachucha ! It will breathe 
The fire of youth into these gray old men ! 
'Twill be thy proudest conquest ! 

Prec. Saving one. 

And yet I fear these dances will be stopped, 
And Preciosa be once more a beggar. 

Vict. The sweetest beggar that e'er asked for alms; 
With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee 
I gave my heart away ! 

Prec. Dost thou remember 

WTien first we met? 

Vict. It was at Cordova, 

In the cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting 
Under the orange-trees, beside a fountain. 

Prec. 'Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees 
Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy. 
The priests were singing, and the organ sounded. 
And then anon the great cathedral belL 
It was the elevation of the Host. 
We both of us fell down upon our knees, 
Under the orange boughs, and prayed together. 
I never had been happy till that moment. 

Vict. Thou blessed angel ! 

Prec. And when thou wast gone 

I felt an aching here. I did not speak 
To any one that day. But from that day 
Bartolome grew hateful unto me. 

Vict. Remember him no more. Let not his shadow 
Come between thee and me. Sweet Preciosa ! 
I loved thee even then, though I was silent ! 

Prec. I thought I ne'er should see thy face again. 
Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it. 

Vict. That was the first sound in the song of love ! 
Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. 
Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings 
Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, 
And play the prelude of our fate. We hear 
The voice prophetic, and are not alone. 

Prec. That is my faith. Dost thou believe these warnings? 

Vict. So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughts 
Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present. 
As drops of rain fall into some dark well, 
And from below comes a scarce audible sound, 



302 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter, 
And their mysterious echo reaches us. 

Prec. I have felt it so, but found no words to say it ! 
I cannot reason; I can only feel! 
But thou hast language for all thoughts and feelings. 
Thou art a scholar; and sometimes I think 
We cannot walk together in this world ! 
The distance that divides us is too great ! 
Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars; 
I must not hold thee back. 

Vict. Thou little sceptic ! 

Dost thou still doubt? What I most prize in woman 
Is her affections, not her intellect ! 
The intellect is finite; but the affections 
Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. 
Compare me with the great men of the earth; 
What am I ? Why, a pigmy among giants ! 
But if thou lovest, — mark me ! I say lovest, 
The greatest of thy sex excels thee not ! 
The world of the affections is thy world, 
"Not that of man's ambition. In that stillness 
Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy, 
Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart, 
Feeding its flame. The element of fire 
Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature. 
But burns as brightly in a Gipsy camp 
As in a palace-hall. Art thou convinced? 

Prec. Yes, that I love thee, as the good love heaven, 
But not that I am worthy of that heaven. 
How shall I more deserve it ? 

Vict. Loving more. 

Prec. I cannot love thee more ; my heart is full. 

Vict. Then let it overflow, and I will drink it, 
As in the summer-time the thirsty sands 
Drink the swift waters of the Manzanares, 
And still do thirst for more. 

A Watchman (in the street). Ave Maria 
" Purissima ! 'Tis midnight and serene ! 

Vict. Hearst thou that cry? 

Prec. It is a hateful sound, 

To scare thee from me ! 

Vict. As the hunter's horn 

Doth scare the timid stag, or bark of hounds 
The moor-fowl from his mate. 

Prec. Pray, do not go I 

Vict. I must away to Alcala" to-night. 
Think of me when I am away. 

Prec. Fear not ! 

I have no thoughts that do not think of thee, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 303 

Vict, (giving her a ring). And to remind thee of my love, 
take this; 
A serpent, emblem of Eternity; 
A ruby, — say, a drop of my heart's blood. 

Prec. It is an ancient saying, that the ruby 
Brings gladness to the wearer, and preserves 
The heart pure, and, if laid beneath the pillow, 
Drives away evil dreams. But then, alas ! 
It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin. 

Vict. What convent of barefooted Carmelites 
Taught thee so much theology? 

Prec. (laying her hand upon his mouth). Hush ! Hush ! 
Good night ! and may all holy angels guard thee ! 

Vict. Good night! good night! Thou art my guardiaD 
angel ! 
I have no other saint than thou to pray to ! 

(He descends by the balcony.) 

Prec. Take care, and do not hurt thee. Art thou safe ? 

Vict, (from the garden). Safe as my love for thee ! But art 
thou safe ? 
Others can climb a balcony by moonlight 
As well as I. Pray, shut thy window close; 
I am jealous of the perfumed air of night 
That from this garden climbs to kiss thy lips. 

Prec. (throwing down her handkerchief). Thou silly child; 
Take this to blind thine eyes. 
It is my benison ! 

Vict. And brings to me 

Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft wind 
"Wafts to the out-bound mariner the breath 
Of the beloved land he leaves behind. 

Prec. Make not thy voyage long. 

Vict. To-morrow night 

Shall see me safe returned. Thou art the star 
To guide me to an anchorage. Good night ! 
My beauteous star ! My star of love, good night ! 

Prec. Good night ! 

Watchman (at a distance). Ave Maria Purissima ! 

SeENE IV. An Inn on the road to Alcald. Baltasar asleep on a 
bench. Enter Chispa. 

Chispa. And here we are, half-way to AlcaM, between cocks and 
midnight. Body o' me ! what an inn this is ! The lights out, and 
the landlord asleep. Hold ! ancient Baltasar ! 

Bal. (waking). Here I am. 

Cliispa. Yes, there you are, like a one-eyed Alcalde in a town with- 
out inhabitants. Bring a light, and let me have supper. 



304 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Bal. Where is your master? 

Chispa. Do not trouble yourself about him. "We have stopped a 
moment to breathe our horses; and if he chooses to walk up and 
down in the open air, looking into the sky as one who hears it rain, 
that does not satisfy my hunger, you know. But be quick, for I am 
in a hurry, and every man stretches his legs according to the length 
of his coverlet. What have we here? 

Bal. (setting a light on the table). Stewed rabbit. 

Chispa (eating). Conscience of Portalegre! Stewed kitten, you 
mean ! 

Bal. And a pitcher of Pedro Ximenes, with a roasted pear in it. 

Chispa (drinking). Ancient Baltasar, amigo ! You know how to 
cry wine and sell vinegar. I tell you this is nothing but Vino Tinto 
of La Mancha, with a tang of the swine-skin. 

Bal. I swear to you, by Saint Simon and Judas, it is all as I say. 

Chispa. And I swear to you, by Saint Peter and Saint Paul, that it 
is no such thing. Moreover, your supper is like the hidalgo's dinner, 
very little meat, and a great deal of table-cloth. 

Bal. Ha! ha! ha! 

Chispa. And more noise than nuts. 

Bal. Ha! ha! ha! You must have your joke, Master Chispa. 
But shall I not ask Don Victorian in, to take a draught of the Pedro 
Ximenes ? 

Cliispa. No ; you might as well say, a Don't-you- want-some ? " to a 
dead man. 

Bal. Why does he go so often to Madrid ? 

Chispa. For the same reason that he eats no supper. He is in 
love. Were you ever in love, Baltasar ? 

Bal. I was never out of it, good Chispa. It has been the torment 
•of my life. 

Chispa. What ! are you on fire-, too, old hay-stack ? Why, we shall 
never be able to put you out. 

Vict, (without). Chispa! 

Chispa. Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for the cocks are crowing. 

Vict. Ea! Chispa! Chispa! 

Chispa. Ea ! Senor. Come with me, ancient Baltasar, and bring 
water for the horses. I will pay for the supper, to-morrow. [Exeunt. 

Scene V. Victorian's Chambers at Alcald. Hypolito asleep in 
an arm-chair. He awakes slowly. 

Hyp. I must have been asleep ! ay, sound asleep ! 
And it was all a dream. sleep, sweet sleep ! 
Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair, 
Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled 
Out of Oblivion's well, a healing draught ! 
The candles have burned low ; it must be late. 
Where can Victorian be ? Like Fray Carrillo, 
The only place in which one cannot find him 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 305 

Is his own cell. Here *s his guitar, that seldom 
Feels the caresses of its master's hand. 
Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument ! 
And make dull midnight merry with a song. 

He plays and sings. 

Padre Francisco ! 
Padre Francisco! 
What do you want of Padre Francisco? 
Here is a pretty young maiden 
Who wants to confess her sins! 
Open the door and let her come in, 
I will shrive her from every sin. 



Enter Victorian. 

Vict. Padre Hypolito ! Padre Hypolito ! 

Hyp. What do you want of Padre Hypolito ? 

Vict. Come, shrive me straight ; for, if love be a sin, 
I am the greatest sinner that doth live. 
I will confess the sweetest of all crimes, 
A maiden wooed and won. 

Hyp. The same old tale 

Of the old woman in the chimney-corner, 
Who, while the pot boils, says, " Come here, my child ; 
I'll tell thee a story of my wedding-day." 

Vict. Nay, listen, for my heart is full; so full 
That I must speak. 

Hyp. Alas ! that heart of thine 

Is like a scene in the old play; the curtain 
Rises to solemn music, and lo ! enter 
The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne ! 

Vict. Nay, like the Sibyl's volumes, thou shouldst say; 
Those that remained, after the six were burned, 
Being held more precious than the nine together. 
But listen to my tale. Dost thou remember 
The Gipsy girl we saw at Cordova 
Dance the Eomalis in the market-place? 

Hyp. Thou meanest Preciosa. 

Vict. Ay, the same. 

Thou knowest how her image haunted me 
Long after we returned to Alcala. 
She 's in Madrid. 

Hyp. I know it. 

Vict. And I 'm in love. 

Hyp. And therefore in Madrid when thou shouldst be 
In Alcala\ 

Vict. 0, pardon me, my friend, 

If I so long have kept this secret from thee; 
But silence is the charm thai; guards such treasures, 



306 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

And, if a word be spoken ere the time, 
They sink again, they were not meant for us. 

Hyp. Alas ! alas ! I see thou art in love. 
Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak. 
It serves for food and raiment. Give a Spaniard 
His mass, his olla, and his Dona Luisa, — 
Thou knowest the proverb. But pray tell me, lover, 
How speeds thy wooing? Is the maiden coy? 
Write her a song, beginning with an Ave; 
Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin Mary, 

Ave! cujus calcem dare, 

Nee centenni commendare 

Sciret Seraph studio! 

Vict. Pray, do not jest! This is no time for it ! 
I am in earnest ! 

Hyp. Seriously enamoured? 

What, ho ! The Primus of great AlcaM 
Enamoured of a Gipsy? Tell me frankly, 
How meanest thou? 

Vict, I mean it honestly. 

Hyp, Surely thou wilt not marry her ! 

Vict. Why not'/ 

Hyp. She was betrothed to one Bartolome*, 
If I remember rightly, a young Gipsy 
Who danced with her at Cordova. 

Vict, They quarrelled, 

And so the matter ended. 

Hyp, But in truth 

Thou wilt not marry her? 

Vict, In truth, I will. 

The angels sang in heaven when she was born ! 
She is a precious jewel I have found 
Among the filth and rubbish of the world. 
I '11 stoop for it; but when I wear it here, 
Set on my forehead like the morning-star, 
The world may wonder, but it will not laugh. 

Hyp. If thou wear'st nothing else upon thy forehead, 
' Twill be indeed a wonder. 

Vict. Out upon thee, 

With thy unseasonable jests ! Pray, tell me, 
Is there no virtue in the world? 

Hyp. Not much. 

What, think'st thou, is she doing at this moment; 
Now, while we speak of her ? 

Vict. She lies asleep, 

And, from her parted lips, her gentle breath 
Comes like the fragrance from +he lips of flowers. 
Her tender limbs are still, and, on her breast, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 307 

The cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep, 
Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams, 
Like a light barge safe moored. 

Hyp. Which means, in prose, 

She 's sleeping with her mouth a little open ! 

Vict. ! would I had the old magician's glass 
To see her as she lies in childlike sleep ! 
N Hyp. And would'st thou venture ? 

Vict. Ay, indeed I would ! 

Hyp. Thou art courageous. Hast thou e'er reflected 
How much lies hidden in that one word noiv ? 

Vict. Yes; all the awful mystery of Life! 
I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, 
That could we, by some spell of magic, change 
The world and its inhabitants to stone, 
In the same attitudes they now are in, 
What fearful glances downward might we cast 
Into the hollow chasms of human life ! 
What groups should we behold about the death-bed. 
Putting to shame the group of Niobe ! 
What joyful welcomes, and w T hat sad farewells; 
What stony tears in those congealed eyes ! 
What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks ! 
What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows ! 
What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling ! 
What lovers with their marble lips together ! 

Hyp. Ay, there it is! and, if I were in. love, 
That is the very point I most should dread. 
This magic glass, these magic spells of thine, 
Might tell a tale were better left untold. 
For instance, they might shew us thy fair cousin, 
The Lady Violante, bathed in tears 
Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis, 
Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, 
Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love, 
Desert est for this Glauce. 

Vict. Hold thy peace ! 

She cares not for me. She may wed another, 
Or go into a convent, and, thus dying, 
Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields. 

Hyp. (rising). And so, good night! Good morning, I should 
say. 

Clock strikes three. 

Hark ! how the loud and ponderous mace of Time 

Knocks at the golden portals of the day ! 

And so, once more, good night ! We '11 speak more largely 

Of Preciosa when we meet again. 

Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep, 



3C8 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Shall show lier to thee, in his magic glass, 

In all her loveliness. Good night ! [Exit 

Vict Good night ! 

But not to bed; for I must read awhile. 

Throws himself into the arm-chair which Hypolito has left, and lays a 
large book ojpen upon his knees. 

Must read, or sit in reverie and watch 

The changing colour of the waves that break 

Upon the idle seashore of the mind ! 

Visions of Fame ! that once did visit me, 

Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye? 

O, who shall give me, now that ye are gone, 

Juices of those immortal plants that bloom 

Upon Olympus, making us immortal ? 

Or teach me where that w r ondrous mandrake grows 

Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans, 

At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away, 

And make the mind prolific in its fancies ? 

I have the wish, but want the will, to act ! 

Souls of great men departed ! Ye whose words 

Have come to light from the swift river of Time, 

Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' bed, 

Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore ? 

From the barred visor of Antiquity 

Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth, 

As from a mirror ! All the means of action — 

The shapeless masses — the materials — 

Lie everywhere about us. What we need 

Is the celestial fire to change the flint 

Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. 

That fire is genius ! The rude peasant sits 

At evening in his smoky cot, and draws 

With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall. 

The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel, 

And begs a shelter from the inclement night. 

He takes the charcoal from the peasant's hand, 

And, by the magic of his touch at once 

Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine, 

And, in the eyes of the astonished clown, 

It gleams a diamond ! Even thus transformed. 

Rude popular traditions and old tales 

Shine as immortal poems, at the touch 

Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard. 

Who had but a night's lodging for his pains. 

But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, 

Which are the dreams of Love ! Out of tte heart 

Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, 

As from some woodland fount a spirit rists 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 309 

And sinks again into its silent deeps, 
Ere the enamoured knight can touch her robe ! 
'Tis this ideal that the soul of man, 
Like the enamoured knight beside the fountain, 
Waits for upon the margin of Life's stream ; 
Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters, 
Clad in a mortal shape ! Alas ! how many- 
Must wait in vain ! The stream flows evermore, 
But from its silent deeps no spirit rises ! 
Yet I, born under a propitious star, 
Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. 
Yes ! she is ever with me. I can feel, 
Here, as I sit at midnight and alone, 
Her gentle breathing ! on my breast can feel 
The pressure of her head ! God's benison 
Rest ever on it ! Close those beauteous eyes, 
Sweet Sleep ! and all the flowers that bloom at night 
With balmy lips breathe in her ears my name ! 

[Gradually sinks asleep, 

ACT II. 

Scene I. — Preciosa's Chamber. Morning. Preciosa and 
Angelica. 

Prec. Why will you go so soon ? Stay yet awhile. 
The poor too often turn away unheard 
From hearts that shut against them with a sound 
That will be heard in heaven. Pray, tell me more 
Of your adversities. Keep nothing from me. 
What is your landlord's name? 

Ang. The Count of Lara. 

Prec. The Count of Lara ! 0, beware that man ! 
Mistrust his pity, — hold no parley with him ! 
And rather die an outcast in the streets 
Than touch his gold ! 

Ang. You know him, then? 

Prec. As much 

As any woman may, and yet be pure. 
As you would keep your name without a blemish, 
Beware of him ! 

Ang. Alas ! what can I do ? 

I cannot choose my friends. Each word of kindness, 
Come whence it may, is welcome to the poor. 

Prec. Make me your friend. A girl so young and fair 
Should have no friends but those of her own sex. 
What is your name? 

Ang. Angelica. 

Prec. That name 

Was given you, that you might be an angel 



310 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

To her who bore you ! When your infant smile 
Made her home Paradise, you were her angeL 
0, be an angel still ! She needs that smile. 
So long as you are innocent, fear nothing. 
No one can harm you ! I am a poor girl, 
Whom chance has taken from the public streets. 
I have no other shield than mine own virtue, 
That is the charm which has protected me ! 
Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it 
Here on my heart. It is my guardian angel. 

A ng. (rising). I thank you for this counsel, dearest lady* 

Prec. Thank me by following it. 

Ang. Indeed I will. 

Prec. Pray, do not go. I have much more to say. 

Ang. My mother is alone. I dare not leave her. 

Prec. Some other time, then, when we meet again. 
You must not go away with words alone. 

(Gives her a purse.) 

Take this. Would it were more. 

Ang. I thank you, lady. 

Prec. No thanks. To-morrow come to me again. 
I dance to-night, — perhaps for the last time. 
But what I gain, I promise shall be yours, 
If that can save you from the Count of Lara. 

Ang. my dear lady, how shall I be grateful 
For so much kindness? 

Prec. I deserve no thanks. 

Thank Heaven, not me. 

Ang. Both Heaven and you. 

Prec. Farewell. 

Remember that you come again to-morrow. 

Ang. I will. And may the blessed Virgin guard you, 
And all good angels. [Exit. 

Prec. May they guard thee too, 

And all the poor; for they have need of angels. 
Now bring me, dear Dolores, my basquina, 
My richest maja dress, — my dancing dress, 
And my most precious jewels ! Make me look 
Fairer than night e'er saw me ! I 've a prize 
To win this day, worthy of Preciosa ! 

Enter Beltran Cruzado. 
Cruz. Ave Maria ! 

Prec. God ! my evil genius ! 

What seekest thou here to-day? 

Cruz. Thyself, — my child. 

Prec, What is thy will with me? 

Crue. ^ Gold! gold! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 311 

Prec. I gave thee yesterday; I have no more. 

Cruz. The gold of the Busne, — give me his gold ! 

Prec. I gave the last in charity to-day. 

Cruz. That is a foolish lie. 

Prec. It is the truth. 

Cruz. Curses upon thee ! Thou art not my child ! 
Hast thou given gold away, and not to me? 
Not to thy father? To whom, then? 

Prec. To one 

Who needs it more. 

Cruz. No one can need it more. 

Prec. Thou art not poor. 

Cruz. What, I, who lurk about 

In dismal suburbs and unwholesome lanes; 
I, who am housed worse than the galley slave, 
I, who am fed worse than the kennelled hound, 
I, who am clothed in rags, — Beltran Cruzado, — 
Not poor ! 

Prec. Thou hast a stout heart and strong hands. 
Thou canst supply thy wants; what wouldst thou more? 

Cruz. The gold of the Busne ! give me his gold ! 

Prec. Beltran Cruzado ! hear me once for all. 
I speak the truth. So long as I had gold, 
I gave it to thee freely, at all times, 
Never denied thee; never had a wish 
But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace ! 
Be merciful, be patient, and, ere long, 
Thcu shalt have more. 

Ct*uz. And if I have it not, 

Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich chambers, 
Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food, 
And live in idleness; but go with me, 
Dance the Romalis in the public streets, 
And wander wild again o'er field and fell; 
For here we stay not long. 

Prec. What! march again? 

Cruz. Ay, with all speed. I hate the crowded town ! 
I cannot breathe shut up within its gates ! 
Air, — I want air, and sunshine, and blue sky, 
The feeling of the breeze upon my face, 
The feeling of the turf beneath my feet, 
And no walls but the far-off mountain tops. 
Then I am free and strong, — once more myself, 
Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales ! 

Prec. God speed thee on thy march ! — I cannot go. 

Cruz. Remember who I am, and who thou art ! 
Be silent and obey ! Yet one thing more. 
Bartolome Roman 

Prec. (with emotion). Oh, I beseech thee ! 



312 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

If my obedience and blameless life, 
If my humility and meek submission 
In all things hitherto, can move in thee 
One feeling of compassion; if thou art 
Indeed my father, and canst trace in me 
One look of her who bore me, or one tone 
That doth remind thee of her, let it plead 
In my behalf, who am a feeble girl, 
Too feeble to resist, and do not force me 
To wed that man ! I am afraid of him ! 
I do not love him ! On my knees I beg thee 
To use no violence, nor do in haste 
What cannot be undone ! 

Cruz. child, child, child ! 

Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird 
Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it. 
I will not leave thee here in the great city 
To be a grandee's mistress. Make thee ready 
To go with us; and until then remember 
A watchful eye is on thee. [Exit 

Prec. Woe is me ! 

I have a strange misgiving in my heart ! 
But that one deed of charity I '11 do, 
Befall what may; they cannot take that from me. 

Scene II. A room in the Archbishop's Palace. The Archbishop 
and a Cardinal seated. 

Arch. Knowing how near it touched the public morals, 
And that our age is grown corrupt and rotten 
By such excesses, we have sent to Rome, 
Beseeching that his Holiness would aid 
In curing the gross surfeit of the time, 
By seasonable stop put here in Spain 
To bull-fights and lewd dances on the stage. 
All this you know. 

Card. Know and approve. 

Arch. And farther, 

That, by a mandate from his Holiness, 
The first have been suppressed. 

Card. I trust for ever, 

It was a cruel sport. 

Arch. A barbarous pastime, 

Disgraceful to the land that calls itself 
Most Catholic and Christian. 

Card. Yet the people 

Murmur at this; and, if the public dances 
Should be condemned upon too slight occasion, 
Worse ills might follow than the ills we cure. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 3 ( 3 

As Panem et Circenscs was the cry, 

Among the Roman populace of old, 

So Pan y Toros is the cry in Spain. 

Hence I would act advisedly herein; 

And therefore have induced your grace to see 

These national dances, ere we interdict them. 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. The dancing-girl, and with her the musicians 
Your grace was pleased to order, w T ait without. 

Arch. Bid them come in. Now shall your eyes behold 
In w T hat angelic yet voluptuous shape 
The Devil came to tempt Saint Anthony. 

Enter Preciosa, with a mantle thrown over her head. She advances 
slowly, in a modest, half-timid attitude. 

Card, (aside). Oh, what a fair ?md ministering angel 
"Was lost to heaven when this sweet woman fell ! 

Prec. (kneeling before the Archbishop). I have obeyed the 
order of your grace. 
If I intrude upon your better hours, 
I proffer this excuse, and here beseech 
Your holy benediction. 

Arch. May God bless thee, 

And lead thee to a better life. Arise. 

Card, (aside). Her acts are modest, and her words discreet! 
I did not look for this ! Come hither, child. 
Is thy name Preciosa? 

Prec. Thus I am called. 

Card. That is a Gipsy name. Who is thy father? 

Prec. Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales. 

Arch. I have a dim remembrance of that man; 
He was a bold and reckless character, 
A sun-burnt Ishmael ! 

Card. Dost thou remember 

Thy earlier days? 

Prec. Yes; by the Darro's side 

My childhood passed. I can remember still 
The river, and the mountains capped with snow; 
The villages, where, yet a little child, 
I told the traveller's fortune in the street; 
The smuggler's horse, the brigand and the shepherd; 
The march across the moor; the halt at noon; 
The red fire of the evening camp, that lighted 
The forest where we slept; and, farther back, 
As in a dream or in some former life, 
Gardens and palace walls. 

Arch. 'Tis the Alhambra, 

Under whose towers the Gipsy camp was pitched. 



314 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

But the time wears; and we would see the dance. 
Prec. Your grace shall be obeyed. 
She lays aside her mantilla. The music of the cachucha is played, and 
the dance begins. The Archbishop and the Cardinal look on with 
gravity and an occasional froivn ; then make signs to each other; 
and, as the dance continues, become more and more pleased and eoo- 
cited; and at length rise from their seats, throw their caps in the air, 
and applaud vehemently as the scene closes. 

Scene III. The Praclo. A long avenue of trees leading to the gate of 
Atocha. On the right the dome and spires of a convent. A foun- 
tain. Evening. Don Carlos and Hypolito meeting. 

Don C. HoM ! good evening, Don Hypolito. 

Hyp. And a good evening to my friend, Don Carlos. 
Some lucky star has led my steps this way. 
I was in search of you. 

Don C. Command me always. 

Hyp. Do you remember, in Quevedo's Dreams, 
The miser, who, upon the Day of Judgment, 
Asks if his money-bags would rise? 

Don O. I do; 

But what of that? 

Hyp. I am that wretched man. 

Don 0. You mean to tell me yours have risen empty? 

Hyp. And amen ! said my Cid Campeador. 

Don C. Pray, how much need you ? 

Hyp. Some half-dozen ounces, 

Which, with due interest 

Don C. {giving his purse). "What ! am I a Jew, 
To put my moneys out at usury ? 
Here is my purse. 

Hyp. Thank you. A pretty purse, 

Made by the hand of some fair Madrileiia ; 
Perhaps a keepsake. 

Don C. No, 'tis at your service. 

Hyp. Thank you again. Lie there, good Chrysostom, 
And with thy golden mouth remind me often, 
I am the debtor of my friend. 

Don C. But tell me, 

Come you to-day from AlcaM ? 

Hyp. This moment. 

Don C. And pray, how fares the brave Victorian? 

Hyp. Indifferent well; that is to say, not well. 
A damsel has ensnared him with the glances 
Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen catch 
A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. 
He is in love. 

Don C. And is it faring ill 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 315 

To be in love ? 

Hyp. In his case very ill. 

Don C. Why so ? 

Hyp. For many reasons. First and foremost, 

Because he is in love with an ideal; 
A creature of his own imagination; 
A child of air; an echo of hi3 heart; 
And, like a lily on a river floating, 
She floats upon the river of his thoughts ! 

Don C. A common thing with poets. But who is 
This floating lily? For, in fine, some woman, 
Some living woman, — not a mere ideal, — 
Must wear the outward semblance of his thought. 
Who is it? TeH me. 

Hyp. Well, it is a woman ! 

But, look you, from the coffer of his heart 
He brings forth precious jewels to adorn her, 
As pious priests adorn some favourite saint 
With gems and gold, until at length she gleams 
One blaze of glory. Without these, you know, 
And the priest's benediction, 'tis a doll. 

Don C. Well, well! who is this doll? 

Hyp. Why, who do you think? 

Don C. His cousin Violante. 

Hyp. Guess again. 

To ease his labouring heart, in the last storm 
He threw her overboard, with all her ingots. 

Don C. I cannot guess; so tell me who it is. 

Hyp. Not I. 

Don C. Why not? 

Hyp. (mysteriously). Why? Because Mari Franca 
Was married four leagues out of Salamanca ! 

Don C. Jesting aside, who is it ? 

Hyp. Preciosa. 

Don O. Impossible ! The Count of Lara tells me 
She is not virtuous. 

Hyp. Did I say she was? 

The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife 
Whose name was Messalina, as I think; 
Valeria Messalina was her name. 
But hist ! I see him yonder through the trees, 
Walking as in a dream. 

Don C. He comes this way. 

Hyp. It has been truly said by some wise man, 
That money, grief, and love, cannot be hidden. 

Enter Victorian in front. 
Vict. Where'er thy step has passed is holy ground ; 
These groves are sacred ! I behold thee walking 



316 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Under these shadowy trees, where we have walked 
At evening, and I feel thy presence now; 
Feel that the place has taken a charm from thee, 
And is for ever hallowed. 

Hyp. Mark him well ! 

See how he strides away with lordly air, 
Like that odd guest of stone, that grim Commander 
Who comes to sup with Juan in the play. 

Don C. What ho ! Victorian ! 

Hyp. Wilt thou sup with us ? 

Vict. Hold ! amigos ! Faith, I did not see you. 
How fares Don Carlos ? 

Hon C. At your service ever. 

Vict. How is that young and green-eyed Gaditana 
That you both wot of? 

Don 0. Ay, soft, emerald eyes ? 

She has gone back to Cadiz. 

Hyp. Ay de mi/ 

Vict. You are mu^h to blame for letting her go back. 
A pretty girl ; and in her tender eyes 
Just that soft shade of green we sometimes see 
In evening skies. 

Hyp. But, speaking of green eyes, 

Are thine green ? 

Vict. Not a whit. Why so ? 

Hyp. I think 

The slightest shade of green would be becoming, 
' For thou art jealous. 

Vict. No, I am not jealous. 

Hyp. Thou shouldst be. 

Vict. Why? 

Hyp. Because thou art in love ; 

And they who are in love are always jealous; 
Therefore thou shouldst be. 

Vict. Marry, is that all ? 

Farewell ; I am in haste. Farewell, Don Carlos. 
Thou say est I should be jealous ? 

Hyp. Ay, in truth 

I fear there is reason. Be upon thy guard. 
I hear it whispered that the Count of Lara 
Lays siege to the same citadel. 

Vict. Indeed ! 

Then he will have his labour for his pains. 

Hyp. He does not think so, and Don Carlos tells me 
He boasts of his success. 

Vict. How f s this, Don Carlos ? 

Don 0. Some hints of it I heard from his own lips. 
He spoke but lightly of the lady's virtue, 
As a gay man might speak. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 317 

Vict. Death and damnation ! 

I '11 cut his lying tongue out of his mouth, 
And throw it to my dog ! But no, no, no ! 
This cannot be. You jest, indeed you jest. 
Trifle with me no more. For otherwise 
We are no longer friends. And so, farewell ! [Exit 

Hyp. Now what a coil is here ! The Avenging Child 
Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death, 
And the great Moor Calaynos, when he rode 
To Paris for the ears of Oliver, 
Were nothing to him ! Oh hot-headed youth ! 
But come ; we will not follow. Let us join 
The crowd that pours into the Prado. There 
We shall find merrier company; I see 
The Marialonzos aud the Alma vivas, 
And fifty fans, that beckon me already. [Exeunt. 

Scene IV. Pbeciosa's Chamber. She is sitting, with a booh in her 
handy near a table, on which are flowers. A bird singing in its cage. 
The Count of Laea enters behind unjperceived. 

Prec. (reads). 

All are sleeping; weary heart ! 
Tnou, thou only sleepless art ! 

Heigho ! I wish Victorian were here. 

I know not what it is makes me so restless ! 

The bird sings. 

Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, 
That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest, 
Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, 
I have a gentle gaoler. Lack-a-day ! 

All are sleeping, weary heart ! 
Thou, thou only sleepless art ! 
All this throbbing, all this aching, 
Evermore shall keep thee waking, 
For a heart in sorrow breaking 
Thinketh ever of its smart ! 

Thou speakest truly, poet ! and methinks 
More hearts are breaking in this world of ours 
Than one would say. In distant villages 
And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted 
The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage 
Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, 
And grow in silence, and in silence perish. 
Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? 
Or who takes note of every flower that dies? 



S18 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Heigho ! I wish Victorian would come. 
Dolores ! 

Tunis to lay down her book, and perceives the Count. 

Ha! 

Lara. Senora, pardon me ! 

Prec. How's this? Dolores! 

Lara. Pardon me 

Prec. Dolores ! 

Lara. Be not alarmed; I found no one in waiting. 
If I have been too bold. 

Prec. {turning her back upon him). You are too bold? 
Retire ! retire, and leave me ! 

Lara. , My dear lady, 

First hear me ! I beseech you, let me speak ! 
'Tis for your good I come. 

Prec. {turning toward him with indignation). Begone! 



You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds 
Would make the statues of your ancestors 
Blush on their tombs ! Is it Castilian honour, 
Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here 
Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong? 

shame ! shame ! shame ! that you, a nobleman, 
Should be so little noble in your thoughts 
As to send jewels here to win my love, 
And think to buy my honour with your gold ! 

1 have no words to tell you how I scorn you ! 
Begone ! The sight of you is hateful to me ! 
Begone, I say ! 

Lara. Be calm; I will not harm you. 

Prec. Because you dare not. 

Lara. I dare anything ! 

Therefore beware ! You are deceived in me. 
In this false world, we do not always know 
Who are our friends and who our enemies. 
We all have enemies, and all need friends. 
Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court 
Have foes, who seek to wrong you. 

Prec. If to this 

I owe the honour of the present visit, 
You might have spared the coming. Having spoken, 
Once more I beg you, leave me to myself. 

Lara. I thought it but a friendly part to tell you 
What strange reports are current here in town. 
For my own self, I do not credit them; 
But there are many who, not knowing you, 
Will lend a readier ear. 

Prec. There was no need 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



319 



TLat you should take upon yourself the duty 
Of telling me these tales. 

Lara. Malicious tongues 

Are ever busy with your name. 

Prec. Alas ! 

I have no protectors. I am a poor girl, 
Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests. 
They wound me, yet I cannot shield myself. 
I give no cause for these reports. I live 
Retired; am visited by none. 

Lara. By none ? 

Oh, then, indeed, you are much wronged ! 

Prec. How mean you? 

Lara. Nay, nay; I will not wound your gentle soul 
By the report of idle tales. 

Prec. Speak out ! 

What are these idle tales? You need not spare me. 

Lara. I will deal frankly with you. Pardon me; 
Thi3 window, as I think, looks toward the street, 
And this into the Prado, does it not ? 
In yon high house, beyond the garden wall, — 
You see the roof there just above the trees, — 
There lives a friend, who told me yesterday, 
That on a certain night, — be not offended 
If I too plainly speak, he saw a man 
Climb to your chamber window. You are silent ! 
I would not blame you, being young and fair 

He tries to embrace her. She starts back, and draws a dagger from 
her bosom. 

Prec. Beware ! beware ! I am a Gipsy girl ! 
Lay not your hand upon me. One step nearer 
And I will strike ! 

Lara. Pray you, put up that dagger. 

Fear not. 

Prec. I do not fear. I have a heart 
In whose strength I can trust. 

Lara. Listen to me. 

I come here as your friend, — I am your friend, — 
And by a single word can put a stop 
To all those idle tales, and make your name 
Spotless as lilies are. Here on my knees, 
Fair Preciosa ! on my knees I swear, 
I love you even to madness, and that love 
Has driven me to break the rules of custom, 
And force myself unasked into your presence. 

Yictorian enters behind. 

Prec. Rise, Count of Lara ! That is not the x>lace 



320 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

For such as you are. It becomes you not 
To kneel before me. I am strangely moved 
To see one of your rank thus low and humbled; 
For your sake I will put aside all anger, 
All unkind feeling, all dislike, and speak 
In gentleness, as most becomes a woman, 
And as my heart now prompts me. I no more 
Will hate you, for all hate is painful to me. 
But if, without offending modesty 
And that reserve which is a woman's glory, 
I may speak freely, I will teach my heart 
To love you. 

Lara. sweet angel ! 

Prec. Ay, in truth, 

Far better than you love yourself or me. 

Lara. Give me some sign of this, — the slightest token. 
Let me but kiss your hand ! 

Prec. Nay, come no nearer. 

The words I utter are its sign and token. 
Misunderstand me not ! Be not deceived ! 
The love wherewith I love you is not such 
As you would offer me. For you come here 
To take from me the only thing I have, 
My honour. You are wealthy, you have friends 
And kindred, and a thousand pleasant hopes 
That fill your heart with happiness ; but I 
Am poor, and friendless, having but one treasure, 
And you would take that from me, and for what ? 
To flatter your own vanity, and make me 
What you would most despise. Sir, such love. 
That seeks to harm me, cannot be true love. 
Indeed it cannot. But my love for you 
Is of a different kind. It seeks your good. 
It is a holier feeling. It rebukes 
Your earthly passion, your unchaste desires, 
And bids you look into your heart, and see 
How you do wrong that better nature in you, 
And grieve your soul with sin. 

Lara. I swear to you, 

I would not harm you ; I would only love you. 
I would not take your honour, but restore it, 
And in return I ask but some slight mark 
Of your affection. If indeed you love me, 
As you confess you do, oh, let me thus 
With this embrace 

Vict, {rushing forward). Hold ! hold ! This is too much. 
What means this outrage ? 

Lara. First, what right have you 

To question thus a nobleman of Spain ? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 321 

Yict. I too am noble, and you are no more ! 
Out of my sight ! 

Lara. Are you the master here ? 

Vict. Ay, here and elsewhere, when the wTong of others 
Gives me the right ! 

Prec. (to Lara). Go ! I beseech you, go ! 

Yict. I shall have business with you, Count, anon ! 

Lara. You cannot come too soon! [Exit 

Prec. Victorian ! 

Oh we have been betrayed ! 

Yict. Ha! ha! betrayed! 

"lis I have been betrayed, not we ! — not we ! 

Prec. Dost thou imagine 

Yict. I imagine nothing ; 

I see how 't is thou whilest the time away 
When I am gone ! 

Prec. Oh speak not in that tone ! 

It wounds me deeply. 

Yict. 'Twas not meant to natter. 

Prec. Too well thou knowest the presence of that man 
Is hateful to me ! 

Yict. Yet I saw thee stand 

And listen to him, when he told his love. 

Prec. I did not heed his words. 

Yict. Indeed thou didst, 

And answeredst them with love. 

Prec. Hadst thou heard all 

Yict. I heard enough. 

Prec. Be not so angry with me. 

Yict. I am not angry; I am very calm. 

Prec. If thou wilt let me speak 

Yict. Nay, say no more. 

I know too much already. Thou art false ! 
I do not like these Gipsy marriages ! 
Where is the ring I gave thee? 

Prec. In my casket. 

Vict. There let it rest! I would not have thee wear ib; 
I thought thee spotless, and thou art polluted ! 

Prec. I call the Heavens to witness 

Yict. Nay, nay, nay ! 

Take not the name of Heaven upon thy lips ! 
They are forsworn ! 

Prec. Victorian ! dear Victorian ! 

Yict. I gave up all for thee; myself, my fame, 
My hopes of fortune, ay, my very soul ! 
And thou hast been my ruin ! Now, go on ! 
Laugh at my folly with thy paramour, 



322 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

And, sitting on the Count of Lara's knee, 
Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian was ! 

[He casts her from him and rushes out. 
Prec. And this from thee ! 

Scene closes. 



Scene V. The Count of Lara's Rooms. Enter the Count. 

Lara. There 's nothing in the world so sweet as love. 
And next to love the sweetest thing is hate ! 
I Ve learned to hate, and therefore am revenged. 
A silly girl to play the prude with me ! 
The fire that I have kindled 

Enter Francisco. 

Well, Francisco, 
"What tidings from Don Juan? 

Fran. Good, my lord; 

He will be present. 

Lara. And the Duke of Lermos? 

Fran. Was not at home. 

Lara. How with the rest? 

Fran. I've found 

The men you wanted. They will all be there, 
And at the given signal raise a whirlwind 
Of such discordant noises, that the dance 
Must cease for lack of music. 

Lara. Bravely done. 

Ah ! little dost thou dream, sweet Preciosa, 
What lies in wait for thee. Sleep shall not close 
Thine eyes this night ! Give me my cloak and sword. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene VI. A retired spot beyond the city gates. Enter Victorian 
and Hypolito. 

Vict. shame ! shame ! Why do I walk abroad 
By daylight, when the very sunshine mocks me, 
And voices, and familiar sights and sounds 
Cry " Hide thyself ! " 0, what a thin partition 
Doth shut out from the curious world the knowledge 
Of evil deeds that have been done in darkness ! 
Disgrace has many tongues. My fears are windows 
Through which all eyes seem gazing. Every face 
Expresses some suspicion of my shame, 
And in derision seems to smile at me ! 

Hyp. Did I not caution thee ? Did I not tell thee 
I was but half persuaded of her virtue? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 323 

Vict. And yet, Hypolito, we may be wrong, 
We may be over-hasty in condemning ! 
The Count of Lara is a cursed villain. 

Hyp. And therefore is she cursed, loving him. 

Vict. She does not love him ! "Pis for gold ! for gold ! 

Hyp. Ay, but remember, in the public streets 
He shews a golden ring the Gipsy gave him, 
A serpent with a ruby in its mouth. 

Vict. She had that ring from me ! God ! she is false ! 
But I will be revenged ! The hour is passed. 
Where stays the coward? 

Hyp. Nay, he is no coward; 

A villain, if thou wilt, but not a coward. 
I Ve seen him play with swords ; it is his pastime. 
And therefore be not over-confident, 
He '11 task thy skill anon. Look, here he comes. 

(Enter Laea, folloived by Francisco.) 

Lara. Good evening, gentlemen. 

Hyp. Good evening, Count. 

Lara. I trust I have not kept you long in waiting. 

Vict. Not long, and yet too long. Are you prepared? 

Lara. I am. 

Hyp. It grieves me much to see this quarrel 

Between you gentlemen. Is there no way 
Left open to accord this difference, 
But you must make one with your swords? 

Vtct. ~No ! none ! 

I do entreat thee, dear Hypolito, 
Stand not between me and my foe. Too long 
Our tongues have spoken. Let these tongues of steel 
End our debate. Upon your guard, Sir Count ! 

(They fight. Victorian disarms the Count.) 

Your lif e is mine ; and what shall now withold me 
From sending your vile soul to its account? 

Lara. Strike ! strike ! 

Vict. You are disarmed. I will not kill you. 

I will not murder you. Take up your sword. 

Francisco hands the Count his sicord, and Hypolito interposes, 

Hyp. Enough ! Let it end here ! The Count of Lara 
Has shewn himself a brave man, and Victorian 
A generous one, as ever. Now be friends. 
Put up your swords; for, to speak frankly to you, 
Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing 
To move you to extremes. 

Lara. I am content. 



324 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

I sought no quarrel. A few hasty words, 
Spoken in the heat of blood, have led to this. 

Vict. Nay, something more than that. 

Lara. I understand you. 

Therein I did not mean to cross your path. 
To me the door stood open, as to others. 
But had I known the girl belonged to you, 
Never would I have sought to win her from you. 
The truth stands now revealed; she has been false 
To both of us. 

Vict. Ay, false as hell itself ! 

Lara. In truth I did not seek her; she sought me; 
And told me how to win her, telling me 
The hours when she was oftenest left alone. 

Vict. Say, can you prove this to me ? Oh, pluck out 
These awful doubts, that goad me into madness ! 
Let me know all ! all ! all ! 

Lara. You shall know all. 

Here is my page, who was the messenger 
Between us. Question him. Was it not so, 
Francisco ? 

Fran. Ay, my lord. 

Lara. If further proof 

Is needful, I have here a ring she gave me. 

Vict. Pray let me see that ring ! It is the same ! 

(Throws it upon the ground, and tramples upon it.) 

Thus may she perish who once wore that ring ! 
Thus do I spurn her from me ; do thus trample 
Her memory in the dust ! Count of Lara, 
We both have been abused, been much abused ! 
I thank you for your courtesy and frankness. 
Though, like the surgeon's hand, yours gave me pain, 
Yet it has cured my blindness, and I thank you. 
I now can see the folly I have done, 
Though 'tis, alas ! too late. So fare you well ! 
To-night I leave this hateful town for ever. 
Regard me as your friend. Once more, farewell ! 

Hyp. Farewell, Sir Count. [Exeunt Victorian <x^Hypolito. 

Lara. Farewell! farewell! 

Thus have J cleared the field of my worst foe i 
I have none else to fear; the fight is done, 
The citadel is stormed, the victory won ! 

[Exit with Francisco. 

Scene YII. A lane in the sulurls. Night, Enter Cruzado and 
Bartolome. 
Cruz. And so, Bartolome*, the expedition failed. But where wast 
thou for the most part? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



325 



Bart. In the Guadarrama mountains, near San Ildefonso. 

Cruz. And thou bringest nothing back with thee? Didst thou 
•ob no one ? 

Bart. There was no one to rob, save a party of students from 
ego via, who looked as if they would rob us; and a jolly little friar, 
who had nothing in his pockets but a missal and a loaf of bread. 

Cruz. Pray, then, what brings thee back to Madrid? 

Bart. First tell me what keeps thee here? 

Cruz. Preciosa, 

Bart. And she brings me back. Hast thou forgotten thy promise ? 

Cruz. The two years are not passed yet. Wait patiently. The 
girl shall be thine. 

Bart. I hear she has a Busne lover. 

Cruz. That is nothing. 

Bart. I do not like it. I hate him, — the son of a Busne harlot. 
He goes in and out, and speaks with her alone, and I must stand 
aside, and wait his pleasure. 

Cruz. Be patient, I say. Thou shalt have thy revenge. When 
the time comes, thou shalt waylay him. 

Bart. Meanwhile, show me her house. 

Cruz. Come this way. But thou wilt not find her. She dances 
at the play to-night. 

Bart. No matter. Show me the house. \Exeunt. 



Scene VIII. The Theatre. The orchestra plays the cachucha. Sound 
of castanets behind the scenes. The curtain rises, and discovert Pre- 
ciosa in the attitude of commencing the dance. The cachucha. 
Tumult; hisses; cries of " Br aval" and " Afuera!" She falters 
The music stops. General confusion. Preciosa faints. 



Scene IX. The Count of Lara's Chambers, 
at supper. 



Lara and his Friend 



Lara. So, Caballeros, once more many thanks ! 
You have stood by me bravely in this matter. 
Pray fill your glasses. 

Don Juan. Did you mark, Don Luis, 

How pale she looked, when first the noise began, 
And then stood still, with her large eyes dilated ! 
Her nostrils spread ! her lips apart ! her bosom 
Tumultuous as the sea ! 

Don Luis. I pitied her. 

Lara. Her pride is humbled; and this very night 
I mean to visit her. 

Don J. Will you serenade her? 

Lara. No music ! no more music ! 

Don L. Why not music? 

It softens many hearts. 



326 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Lara. Not in the humour 

She now is in. Music would madden her. 

Don J. Try golden cymbals. 

Don L. Yes, try Don Dinero; 

A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero. 

Lara. To tell the truth, then, I have bribed her maid. 
But, Caballeros, you dislike this wine. 
A bumper and away ! for the night wears. 
A health to Preciosa ! 

{They rise and drink.) 

All. Preciosa! 

Lara (holding up his glass). Thou bright and naming minis- 
ter of Love ! 
Thou wonderful magician, who hast stolen 
My secret from me, and mid sighs of passion 
Caught from my lips, with red and fiery tongue, 
Her precious name ! 0, never more henceforth 
Shall mortal lips press thine ; and never more 
A mortal name be whispered in thine ear. 
Go ! keep my secret ! 

(Drinks, and dashes the goblet down.) 

Don J". Ite! missa est! 

(Scene closes.) 

Scene X. Street and garden wall. Night. Enter Cruzado and 
Bartolome. 

Cruz. This is the garden wall, and above it, yonder, is her house. 
The window in which thou seest the light is her window. But we 
will not go in now. 

Bart. Why not? 

Cruz. Because she is not at home. 

Bart. No matter; we can wait. But how is this? The gate is 
bolted. (Sound of guitars and voices in a neighbouring street.) Hark ! 
There comes her lover with his infernal serenade ! Hark t 

SONG. 

Good night ! Good night, beloved I 

I come to watch o'er thee ! 
To be near thee, — to be near thee, 

Alone is peace for me. 

Thine eyes are stars of morning, 

Thy lips are crimson flowers ! 
Good night ! Good night, beloved I 

While I count the weary hours. 

Cruz. They are not coming this way. 
Bart. Wait, they begin again. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 327 

song {coming nearer,) 

Ah! thou raoon that shinest 

Argent-clear above ! 
All night long enlighten 

My sweet lady-love 1 

Moon that shinest, 
All night long enlighten ! 

Bart. "Woe be to him if he comes this way ! 
Cruz. Be quiet, they are passing down the street. 

song {dying away). 

The nuns in the cloister 

Sang to each other; 
For so many sisters 

Is there not one brother? 
Ay, for the partridge, mother ! 

The cat has run away with the partridge ! 
Puss ! puss ! puss I 

Bart. Follow that ! follow that ! Come with me ? 
Puss! puss! 

[Exeunt, On the opposite side enter the Count of Laea 
and Gentlemen, with Francisco.] 

Lara. The gate is fast. Over the wall, Francisco, 
And draw the bolt. There so, and so, and over. 
Now, gentlemen, come in, and help me scale 
Yon balcony. How now? Her light still burns. 
Move warily. Make fast the gate, Francisco. 

[Exeunt. Re-enter Cruzado and Bartolome. 

Bart. They went in at the gate. Hark ! I hear them in 
the garden. {Tries the gate.) Bolted again! Vive Cristo! 
Follow me over the wall. [They climb the wall. 

Scene XL Preciosa's bed-chamber. Midnight. She is sleeping in 
an arm-chair, in an undress. Dolores watching her. 

Dol. She sleeps at last. 

(Opens the window and listens.) 

All silent in the street, 
And in the garden. Hark ! 

Free, {in her sleep), I must go hence ! 

Give me my cloak ! 
Dol. He comes ! I hear his footsteps ! 

Tree. Go tell them that I cannot dance to-night; 
I am too ill ! Look at me ! See the fever 
That burns upon my cheek ! I must go hence, 
I am too weak to dance. 

(Signal from the garden.) 
Dol. {from the window). Who's there? 
Voice {from below), A friend. 



328 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Dol. I will undo the door. "Wait till I come. 

Prec. I must go hence. I pray you do not harm me ! 
Shame ! shame ! to treat a feeble woman thus i 
Be you but kind, I will do all things for you. 
I 'm ready now, — give me my castanets. 
Where is Victorian? Oh, those hateful lamps ! 
They glare upon me like an evil eye. 
I cannot stay. Hark ! how they mock at me ! 
They hiss at me like serpents ! Save me ! save me ! 
(She wakes.) 

How late is it, Dolores? 

.Dol. It is midnight. 

Prec, We must be patient. Smooth this pillow for me. 
( She sleeps again. Noise from the garden, and voices.) 

Voice. Muera! 

Another voice. villains ! villains ! 

Lara. So ! have at you ! 

Voice. Take that ! 

Lara. Oh, I am wounded ! 

Dol. (shutting the window). Jesu Maria ! 

ACT III. 

Scene I. A Cross-road through a wood. In the background a distant 
village spire. Victorian and Hypolito, as travelling students with 
guitars, sitting under the trees. Hypolito plays and sings. 

SONG. 

Ah, Love! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Enemy 
Of all that mankind may not rue ! 

Most untrue 
To him who keeps most faith with thee. 

Woe is me ! 
The falcon has the eyes of the dove. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Vict. Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle, 
Is ever weaving into life's dull warp 
Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes Arcadian; 
Hanging our gloomy prison-house about 
With tapestries, that make its walls dilate 
In never-ending vistas of delight. 

Hyp. Thinking to walk in those Arcadian pastures, 
Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall. 

song (continued). 

Thy deceits 
Crive us clearly to comprehend, 



THE SPAJSTSH STUDENT. 

Whither tend 
All thy pleasures, all thy sweets, 

They are cheats, 
Thorns below and flowers above. 

Ah, Love I 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Vict. A very pretty song. I thank thee for it. 

Hyp. It suits thy case. 

Vict. Indeed, I think it does. 

What wise man wrote it? 

Hyp. Lopez Maldonado. 

Vict. In truth, a pretty song. 

Hyp. With much truth in it. 

I hope thou wilt profit by it; and in earnest 
Try to forget this lady of thy love. 

Vict. I will forget her ! All dear recollections 
Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book, 
Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds ! 
I will forget her ! But perhaps hereafter, 
When she shall learn how heartless is the world. 
A voice within her will repeat my name, 
And she will say, " He was indeed my friend ! " 
Oh, would I were a soldier, not a scholar, 
That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums, 
The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet, 
The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm, 
And a swift death might make me deaf for ever 
To the upbraidings of this foolish heart ! 

Hyp. Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more ! 
To conquer love, one need but will to conquer. 

Vict Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain 
I throw into Oblivion's sea the sword 
That pierces me; for, like Excalibar, 
With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink. 
There rises from below a hand that grasps it, 
And waves it in the air ; and wailing voices 
Are heard along the shore. 

Hyp. And yet at last 

Down sank Excalibar to rise no more. 
This is not well. In truth, it vexes me. 
Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time, 
To make them jog on merrily with life's burden, 
Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels 
Thou art too young, too full of lusty health, 
To talk of dying. 

Vict. Yet I fain would die ! 

To go through life unloving, and unloved; 
To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul 
We cannot still; that longing, that wild impulse. 
And struggle after something we nave not 



.329 



330 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

And cannot have ! the effort to be strong; 
And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile 
While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks ; 
All this the dead feel not, — the dead alone ! 
Would I were with them ! 

Hyp. We shall all be soon. 

Vict. It cannot be too soon ; for I am weary 
Of the bewildering masquerade of Life, 
Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers; 
Where whispers overheard, betray false hearts; 
And through the mazes of the crowd we chase 
Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons, 
And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us 
A mockery and a jest; maddened, — confused, — 
Not knowing friend from foe. 

Hyp. Why seek to know ? 

Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth ! 
Take each fair mask for what it gives itself, 
Nor strive to look beneath it. 

Vict. I confess, 

That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer 
Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man, 
Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner, 
Who, struggling to climb up into the boat, 
Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off, 
And sinks again into the weltering sea, 
Helpless and hopeless ! 

Hyp. Yet thou shalt not perish. 

The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation. 
Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines 
A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy stpr 1 

(Sound of a milage hell in ike distance.) 

Vict. Ave Maria ! I hear the sacristan 
Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry ! 
A solemn sound, that echoes far and wide 
Over the red roofs of tne cottages, 
And bids the labouring hind a-field, the shepherd 
Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer, 
And all the crowd in village streets, stand still, 
And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Virgin ! 

Hyp. Amen ! amen ! not half a league from hence 
The village lies. 

Vict. This path will lead us to it, 

Over the wheat-fields, where the shadows sail 
Across the running sea, now green, now blue, 
And, like an idle mariner on the main, 
Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on. 

\J£xcvmt. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



331 



Scene II. Public square in the village of Guadarrama. TJue Ave 
Maria still tolling. A croiud of villagers, with their hats in their 
hands, as if in prayer. In front a group of Gipsies. The bell rings 
a merrier peal. A Gipsy dance. Enter Pancho, followed by Pedro 
Crespo. 

Pancho. Make room, ye vagabonds and Gipsy thieves ! 
Make room for the Alcalde and for me ! 

Pedro C. Keep silence all ! I have an edict here 
From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain, 
Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, 
Which I shall publish in.the market-place. 
Open your ears and listen ! 

Enter the Padre Cura at the door of his cottage. 

Padre Cura, 
Good day ! and, pray you, hear this edict read. 

Padre C. Good day, and God be with you ! Pray, what is 

it? 
Pedro C. An act of banishment against the Gipsies ! 

(Agitation and murmurs in the crov:d.) 
Pancho. Silence! 

Pedro C. (reads). "I hereby order and command 
That the Egyptian and Chaldean strangers, 
Known by the name of -Gipsies, shall henceforth 
Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds 
And beggars; and if, after seventy days, 
Any be found within our kingdom's bounds, 
They shall receive a hundred lashes each ; 
The second time, shall have their ears cut off; 
The thircj^be slaves for life to him who takes them, 
Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the King." 
Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized ! 
You hear the law ! Obey and disappear ! 

Pancho. And if in seventy days you are not gone, 
Dead or alive I make you all my slaves. 

[The Gipsies go out in confusion, showing signs of fear and 

discontent. Pancho folloius.] 
Padre C. A righteous law ! A very righteous law ! 
Pray you, sit down. 

Pedro C. I thank you heartily. 

(They seat themselves on a bench at the Padre Cura's door. Sound 
of guitars heard at a distance, approaching during the dialogue 
which follows.) 

A very righteous judgment, as you say. 

Now tell me, Padre Cura, — you know all things,— 

How came these Gipsies into Spain? 



332 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Padre C. Why, look you : 

They came with Hercules from Palestine, 
And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir Alcalde, 
As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus, 
And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says, 
There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor 
Is not a Christian, so 'tis with the Gipsies. 
They never marry, never go to mass, 
Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent, 
Nor see the inside of a church, — nor — nor — 

Pedro C. Good reasons — good, substantial reasons all ! 
No matter for the other ninety-five. 
They should be burnt, I see it plain enough, — 
They should be burnt. 

Enter Victorian and Hypolito, playing. 

Padre C. And pray, whom have we here ? 

Pedi'o O. More vagrants ! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants 

Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen? Is this Guadarrama? 

Padre C. Yes, Guadarrama, and good evening to you. 

Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of the village; 
And, judging from your dress and reverend mien, 
You must be he. 

Padre 0. I am. Pray, what's your pleasure? 

Hyp. We are poor students, travelling in vacation. 
You know this mark? 

(Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band.) 

Padre C. (joyfully). Ay, know it, and have worn it. 

Pedro C. (aside). Soup-eaters ! by the mass ! The worst oi 

vagrants ! 

And there 's no law against them. Sir, your servant. [Exit, 

Padre C. Your servant, Pedro Crespo. 

Hyp. Padre Cura, 

From the first moment 7 beheld your face, 
I said within myself, " This is the man ! " 
There is a certain something in your looks, 
A certain scholar-like and studious something, — 
You understand, — which cannot be mistaken ; 
Which marks you as a very learned man, — 
In fine, as one of us. 

Vict, (aside). What impudence ! 

Hyp. As we approached, I said to my companion. 
w That is the Padre Cura; mark my words I" 

Meaning your grace. " The other man/' said I, 
" Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench, 
Must be the sacristan." 

Padre C. Ah! said you so? 

Why that was Pedro Crespo, the alcalde ! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT, 



333 



Hyp. Indeed ! you much astonish, me ! His air 
Was not so full of dignity and grace 
As an alcalde's should be. 

Padre C. That is true. 

He is out of humour with some vagrant Gipsies, 
Who have their camp here in the neighbourhood. 
There is nothing so undignified as anger. 

Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness, 
If, from his well-known hospitality, 
We crave a lodging for the night. 

Padre C. I pray you ! 

You do me honour ! I am but too happy 
To have such guests beneath my humble roof. 
It is not often that I have occasion 
To speak with scholars; and Emollit mores. 
Nee sinit esse feros, Cicero says. 

Hyp. 'Tis Ovid, is it not? 

Padre C. No, Cicero. 

Hyp. Your Grace is right. You are the better scholar. 
Now what a dunce was I to think it Ovid ! 
But hang me if it is not ! (Aside.) 

Padre C. Pass this way. 

He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 
Pray you, go in, go in! no ceremony. [Exeunt. 



Scene III. A Room in the Padee Cuba's house, 
and Hypolito. 



Enter the Padre 



Padre C. So then, Sehor, you come from Alcala". 
I am glad to hear it. It was there I studied. 

Hyp. And left behind an honoured name, no doubt. 
How may I call your Grace ? 

Padre C. Gerdnimo 

De Santillana, at your Honour's service. 

Hyp. Descended from the Marquis Santillana? 
From the distinguished poet? 

Padre C. From the Marquis, 

Not from the poet. 

Hyp. Why, they were the same. 

Let me embrace you ! Oh, some lucky star 
Has brought me hither ! Yet once more ! — once more ! 
Your name is ever green in AlcaM; 
And our professor, when we are unruly, 
Will shake his hoary head, and say, "Alas! 
It was not so in Santillana's time ! " 

Padre C. I did not think my name remembered there. 

Hyp. More than remembered; it is idolised. 

Padre 0. Of what professor speak you? 

Hyp. Timoneda. 



334 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Padre C. I don't remember any Timoneda. 

Hyp. A grave and sombre man, whose beetling brow 
O'erhangs the rushing current of his speech 
As rocks o'er rivers hang. Have you forgotten? 

Padre C. Indeed, I have. 0, those were pleasant days,— 
Those college days ! I ne'er shall see the like ! 
I had not buried then so many hopes ! 
I had not buried then so many friends ! 
I Ve turned my back on what was then before me; 
And the bright faces of my young companions 
Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more. 
Do you remember Cueva? 

Hyp. Cueva? Cueva? 

Padre O. Fool that I am ! He was before your time. 
You 're a mere boy, and I am an old man. 

Hyp. I should not like to try my strength with you. 

Padre C. Well, well. But I forget; you must be hungry. 
Martina ! ho ! Martina ! 'Tis my niece. 

Enter Martina. 

Hyp. You may be proud of such a niece as that. 
I wish I had a niece. Emollii mores. (Aside.) 

He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 
Your servant, fair Martina. 

Mart. Servant, sir. 

Padre O. This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it* 
Let us have supper. 

Mart. 'Twill be ready soon. 

Padre C. And bring a bottle of my Val-de-Penas 
Out of the cellar. Stay; I '11 go myself. 
Pray you, Senor, excuse me. [Exit 

Hyp. Hist! Martina! 

One word with you. Bless me ! what handsome eyes ! 
To-day there have been Gipsies in the village. 
Is it not so ? 

Mart. There have been Gipsies here. 

Hyp. Yes, and they told your fortune. 

Mart, (embarrassed). Told my fortune? 

Hyp. Yes, yes; I know they did. Give me your hand. 
I '11 tell you what they said. They said, — they said, 
The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown, 
And him you should not marry. Was it not? 

Mart, (surprised). How know you that? 

Hyp. 0, I know more than that. 

What a soft, little hand ! And then they said, 
A cavalier from court, handsome, and tall, 
And rich, should come one day to marry you, 
And you should be a lady. Was it not? 
He has arrived, the handsome cavalier. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



335 



Tries to hiss her. She runs off. Enter Victorian with a letter. 

Yict. The muleteer has come. 

Hyp. So soon? 

Vict. I found him 

Sitting at supper by the tavern door, 
And, from a pitcher that he held aloft 
His whole arm's length, drinking the blood-red wine. 

Hyp. What news from Court ? 

Vict. He brought this letter only. {Reads.) 

cursed perfidy ! Why did I let 

That lying tongue deceive me ! Preciosa, 
Sweet Preciosa ! how art thou avenged ! 

Hyp. What news is this, that makes thy cheek turn pale, 
And thy hand tremble ? 

Vict. Oh, most infamous ! 

The Count of Lara is a damned villain ! 

Hyp. That is no news, forsooth. 

Vict. He strove in vain 

To steal from me the jewel of my soul, 
The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding, 
He swore to be revenged; and set on foot 
A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded. 
She has been hissed and hooted from the stage, 
Her reputation stained by slanderous lies 
Too foul to speak of ; and, once more a beggar, 
She roams a wanderer over God's green earth, 
Housing with Gipsies ! 

Hyp. To renew again 

The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd swains 
Desperate with love, like Gaspar Gil's Diana. 
Reclit et Virgo/ 

Vict. Dear Hypolito, 

How have I wronged that meek, confiding heart- 

1 will go seek for her; and with my tears 
Wash out the wrong I Ve done her. 

Hyp. beware ! 

Act not that folly o'er again. 

Vict. Ay, folly, 

Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt, 
I will confess my weakness, — I still love her ! 
Still fondly love her ! 

Enter the Padre Cura. 

Hyp. Tell us, Padre Cura, 

Who are these Gipsies in the neighbourhood? 

Padre C. Beltran Cruzado and his crew. 

Vict. Kind Heaven, 

I thank thee ! She is found ! is found again ! 



336 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Hyp. And have they with them a pale, beautiful girl, 
Called Preciosa? 

Padre C, Ay, a pretty girl. 

The gentleman seems moved. 

Hyp. Yes, moved with hunger; 

He is half famished with this long day's journey. 

Padre C. Then, pray you, come this way. The supper 
waits. [Exeunt. 

Scene IV. A Post-house on the road to Segovia, not far from the vil- 
lage of Guadarrama, Enter Chispa, cracJcing a whip and singing 
the Cachucha. . 



Halloo ! Don Fulano ! Let us have horses, and quickly. 
Alas, poor Chispa ! what a dog's life dost thou lead ! I thought, 
when I left my old master, Victorian, the student, to serve my new 
master Don Carlos, the gentleman, that I, too, should lead the life 
of a gentleman; should go to bed early, and get up late. For when 
the abbot plays cards, what can you expect of the friars? But, in 
running away from the thunder, I have run into the lightning. 
Here I am in hot chase after my master and his Gipsy girl. And 
a good beginning of the week it is, as he said who was hanged on 
Monday morning. 

Enter Don Carlos. 

Don C. Are not the horses ready yet? 

Chispa. I should think not, for the hostler seems to be asleep. 
Ho ! within there ! Horses ! horses ! horses ! 
He knocks at the gate with Ms whip, and enter Mosquito, putting on 
his jacket. 

Mosq. Pray, have a little patience. I *m not a musket. 

Chupa. Health and pistareens ! I 'm glad to see you come on danc- 
ing, padre ! Pray, what *s the news ? 

Mosq. You cannot have fresh horses ; because there are none. 

Chispa. Cachiporra! Throw that bone to another dog. Do I 
look like your aunt ? 

Mosq. No ; she has a beard. 

Chispa. Go to ! go to ! 

Mosq. Are you from Madrid ? 

Chispa. Yes ; and going to Estramadura. Get us horses. 

Mosq. What 's the news at Court ? 

Chispa. Why, the latest news is, that I am going to set up a 
coach, and I have already bought the whip. 

Strikes him round the legs. 

Mosq. Oh ! oh ! you hurt me ! 

Don G. Enough of this folly. Let us have horses. {Gives money 
to Mosquito.) It is almost dark ; and we are in haste. But tell 
me, has a band of Gipsies passed this way of late ? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 337 

Mosq. Yes; and they are still in the neighbourhood. 

Don C. And where? 

Mosq. Across the fields yonder, in the woods near Guadarrama. [Exit. 

Don C. Now this is lucky. We will visit the Gipsy camp. 

Chispa. Are you not afraid of the evil eye ? Have you a stag's 
horn with you ? 

Don C. Fear not. We will pass the night at the village. 

Chispa. And sleep like the Squires of Hernan Daza, nine under 
one blanket. 

Don C. I hope we may find the Preciosa among them. 

Chispa. Among the Squires ? 

Don C. No; among the Gipsies, blockhead! 

Chispa. I hope we may; for we are giving ourselves trouble 
enough on her account. Don't you think so ? However there is no 
catching trout without wetting one's trousers. Yonder come the 
horses. [Exeunt. 

Scene V. The Gipsy camp in the forest. Night. Gipsies working at 
a Forge. Others playing Cards by the fire-light. 

Gipsies (at the forge sing). 

On the top of a mountain I stand, 
With a crown of red-gold in my hand, 
"Wild moors come trooping over the lea, 
O how from their fury shall I flee, flee, flee ? 
O how from their fury shall I flee? 

First Gipsy (playing). Down with your John-Dorados, my pigeon. 
Down with your John-Dorados, and let us make an end. 
Gipsies (at the forge sing). 

Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, 

And thus his ditty ran ; 
God send the Gipsy lassie here, 

And not the Gipsy man. 

First Gipsy (playing). There you are in your morocco. 
Second Gipsy. One more game. The Alcalde's doves against the 
Padre Cura's new moon. 

First Gipsy. Have at you, Chirelin. 
Gipsies (at the fwge sing). 

At midnight, when the moon began 

To show her silver flame, 
There came to him no Gipsy man, 

The Gipsy lassie came. 

Enter Beltran Cruzado. 

Cruz. Come hither, Murcigalleros and Rastilleros; leave work, 
leave play! listen to your orders for the night. (Speaking to the 
right.) You will get you to the village, mark you, by the stone 
cioss. 

Gipsies. Ayi 



338 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Cruz, (to the left.) And you, by the pole with, the hermit's head 
upon it. 

Gipsies. Ay! 

Cruz. As soon as you see the planets are out, in with you, and he 
busy with the ten commandments, under the sly, and Saint Martin 
asleep. D 'ye hear? 

Gipsies. Ay! 

Cruz. Keep your lanterns open, and, if you see a goblin or a papa- 
gay o, take to your trampers. "Vineyards and Dancing John" is 
the word. Am I comprehended? 

Gipsies. Ay! ay! 

Cruz. Away, then ! 

[Exeunt severalty. Cruzado walks up the stage and disappears 
among the trees. Enter Preciosa.] 

Tree. How strangely gleams through the gigantic trees 
The red light of the forge ! Wild, beckoning shadows 
Stalk through the forest, ever and anon 
Kising and bending with the flickering flame. 
Then flitting into darkness ! So within me 
Strange hopes and fears do beckon to each other, 
My brightest hopes giving dark fears a being, 
As the light does the shadow. Woe is me ! 
How still it is about me, and how lonely ! 

Bartolome rushes in. 

Bart. Ho! Preciosa' 

Prec. Bartolome'! 

Thou here? 
* Bart. Lo ! I am here. 

Prec. Whence comest thou? 

Bart. From the rough ridges of the wild Sierra, 
From caverns in the rocks, from hunger, thirst, 
And fever ! Like a wild wolf to the sheepf old 
Come I for thee, my lamb. 

Prec. touch me not ! 

The Count of Lara's blood is on thy hands ! 
The Count of Lara's curse is on thy soul ! 
Do not come near me ! Pray, begone from here ! 
Thou art in danger ! They have set a price 
Upon thy head ! 

Bart. Ay, and I 've wandered long 

Among the mountains; and for many days 
Have seen no human face, save the rough swineherd's, 
The wind and rain have been my sole companions, 
I shouted to them from the rocks thy name. 
And the loud echo sent it back to me, 
Till I grew mad. I could not stay from thee, 
And I am here ! Betray me, if thou wilt. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 339 

Prec. Betray thee? I betray thee? 

Bart. Preciosa! 

I come for thee ! for thee I thus brave death ! 
Fly with me o'er the borders of this realm ! 
Fly with me ! 

Prec. Speak of that no more. I cannot. 

I am thine no longer. 

Bart. 0, recall the time 
When we were children ! how we played together, 
How we grew up together ; how we plighted 
Our hearts unto each other, even in childhood ! 
Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has come. 
I am hunted from the kingdom like a wolf ! 
Fulfil thy promise. 

Prec. 'Twas my father's promise, 

NTot mine. I never gave my heart to thee, 
Nor promised thee my hand ! 

Bart. False tongue of woman ! 

And heart more false ! 

Prec. Nay, listen unto me. 

I will speak frankly. I have never loved thee; 
I cannot love thee. This is not my fault, 
It is my destiny. Thou art a man 
Restless and violent. What wouldst thou with me, 
A feeble girl, who have not long to live, 
Whose heart is broken? Seek another wife, 
Better than I, and fairer; and let not 
Thy rash and headlong moods estrange her from thee. 
Thou art unhappy in this hopeless passion. 
I never sought thy love; never did aught 
To make thee love me. Yet I pity thee, 
And most of all I pity thy wild heart, 
That hurries thee to crimes and deeds of blood. 
Beware, beware of that. 

Bart For thy dear sake, 

I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me patience. 

Prec. Then take this farewell, and depart in peace. 
Thou must not linger here. 

Bart. Come, come with me. 

Prec. Hark ! I hear footsteps. 

Bart. I entreat thee, come ! 

Prec. Away ! It is in vain. 

Bart. Wilt thou not come? 

Prec. Never! 

Bart. Then woe, eternal woe, upon thee ! 

Thou shalt not be another's. Thou shalt die ! [Exit 

Prec. All holy angels keep me in this hour ! 
Spirit of her who bore me, look upon me ! 
Mother of God, the glorified, protect me ! 



340 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Christ and the saints, be merciful unto me ! 
Yet why should I fear death ? What is it to die ! 
To leave all disappointment, care, and sorrow, 
To leave all falsehood, treachery, and unkindness, 
All ignominy, suffering, and despair, 
And be at rest for ever ! 0, dull heart, 
Be of good cheer ! When thou shalt cease to beat, 
Then shalt thou cease to suffer and complain ! 
- 

Enter Victorian and Htpolito behind. 

Vict. 'Tis she ! behold how beautiful she stands 
Under the tent-like trees ! 

Hyp. A woodland nymph ! 

Vict. I pray thee, stand aside. Leave me. 

Hyp. Be wary. 

Do not betray thyself too soon. 

Vict, (disguising his voice). Hist ! Gipsy ! 

Prec. (aside with emotion). That voice! That voice from 
heaven ! 0, speak again ! 
Who is it calls? 

Vict. ' A friend. 

Prec. (aside). 'Tis he ! 'Tis he ! 

I thank thee, Heaven, that thou hast heard my prayer, 
And sent me this protector ! Now be strong, 
Be strong, my heart ! I must dissemble here. 
False friend or true ? 

Vict. A true friend to the true; 

Fear not; come hither. So; can you tell fortunes? 

. Prec. Not in the dark. Come nearer to the fire. 
Give me your hand. It is not crossed, I see. 

Vict, (putting a piece of gold into her hand). There is the cross. 

Prec. Is 't silver ? 

Vict. No, 'tis gold. 

Prec. There 's a fair lady at the Court, who loves you, 
And for yourself alone. 

Vict. Fie ! the old story ! 

Tell me a better fortune for my money; 
Not this old woman's tale ! 

Prec. You are passionate : 

And this same passionate humour in your blood 
Has marred your fortune. Yes; I see it now; 
The line of life is crossed by many marks. 
Shame ! shame ! 0, you have wronged the maid who loved 

you! 
How could you do it? 

Vict. I never loved a maid ; 

For she I loved was then a maid no more. 

Prec. How know you that ? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 341 

Vict. A little bird in the air 

Whispered the secret. 

Prec. There, take back your gold ! 

Your hand is cold, like a deceiver's hand ! 
There is no blessing in its charity ! 
Make her your wife, for you have been abused ; 
And you shall mend your fortunes, mending hers. 

Vict, (aside). How like an angel's speaks the tongue of 
woman, 

When pleading in another's cause her own ! 

That is a pretty ring upon your finger. 
Pray give it me. (Tries to take the ring.) 

Prec. No; never from my hand 

Shall that be taken ! 

Vict. Why, 'tis but a ring. 

I '11 give it back to you ; or, if I keep it, 
Will give you gold to buy you twenty such. 

Prec. Why would you have this ring ? 

Vict. A traveller's fancy,. 

A whim, and nothing more. I would fain keep it, 
As a memento of the Gipsy camp 
In Guadarraina, and the fortune-teller 
Who sent me back to wed a widowed maid. 
Pray, let me have the ring. 

Prec. No, never ! never ! 

I will not part with it, even when I die; 
But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers thus, 
That it may not fall from them. 'Tis a token 
Of a beloved friend, who is no more. 

Vict. How? dead? 

Prec. Yes ; dead to me ; and worse than dead- 
He is estranged ! And yet I keep this ring. 
I will rise with it from my grave hereafter, 
To prove to him that I was never false. 

Vict, (aside). Be still, my swelling heart! one moment, 
still! 
Why, 'tis the folly of a love-sick girl. 
Come, give it me, or I will say 'tis mine, 
And that you stole it. 

Prec. 0, you will not dare 

To utter such a fiendish he ! 

Vict. Not dare ! 

Look in my face, and say if there is aught 
I have not dared, I would not dare for thee ! 

She rusties into his arms. 

Prec. 'Tis thou! 'tis thou. Yes; yes; my heart's elected i 
My dearest-dear Victorian ! my soul's heaven ! 
Where hast thou been so long? Why didst thou leave me ? 



342 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Yict. Ask me not now, my dearest Preciosa. 
Let me forget we ever have been parted ! 

Free. Hadst thou not come 

Vict I pray thee do not chide me ! 

Prec. I should have perished here among these Gipsies. 

Vict. Forgive me, sweet ! for what I made thee suffer. 
Think'st thou this heart could feel a moment's joy, 
Thou being absent? 0, believe it not! 
Indeed, since that sad hour I have not slept, 
For thinking of the wrong I did to thee ! 
Dost thou forgive me? Say, wilt thou forgive me? 

Prec. I have forgiven thee. Ere those words of anger 
Were in the book of Heaven writ down against thee, 
I had forgiven thee. 

Vict. I *m the veriest fool 
That walks the earth, to have believed thee false. 
It was the Count of Lara 

Prec. That bad man 
Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou not heard 

Vict. I have heard all. And yet speak on, speak on ! 
Let me but hear thy voice, and I am happy; 
For every tone, like some sweet incantation, 
Calls up the buried past to plead for me. 
Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart, 
Whatever fills and agitates thine own. 

They walk aside. 

Hyp. All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets, 
All passionate love-scenes in the best romances, 
All chaste embraces on the public stage, 
All soft adventures, which the liberal stars 
Have winked at, as the natural course of things, 
Have been surpassed here by my friend, the student, 
And this sweet Gipsy lass, fair Preciosa ! 

Prec. Senor Hypolito ! I kiss your hand. 
Pray, shall I tell your fortune? 

Hyp. Not to-night; 

For, should you treat me as you did Victorian, 
And send me back to marry maids forlorn, 
My wedding-day would last from now till Christmas. 

Chispa (within). What, ho ! the Gipsies, ho i Beltran Cru- 
zado! 
Halloo! halloo! halloo! halloo! 

Enters hooted, with a whip and lantern, 

Vict. What now? 

Why such a fearful din? Hast thou been robbed? 

Chispa. Ay, robbed and murdered; and good evening to you, 
My worthy masters. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 343 

Vict Speak ; what brings thee here ? 

Chispa (to Pkeciosa). Good news from Court ; good news ! 
Beltran Cruzado, 
The Count of the Cales, is not your father, 
But your true father has returned to Spain 
Laden with wealth. You are no more a Gipsy. 
Vict. Strange as a Moorish tale ! 
Cliispa. And we have all 

Been drinking at the tavern to your health, 
As wells drink in November, when it rains. 
Vict Where is the gentleman ? 
Chispa,. As the old song says, 

His body is in Segovia, 
His soul is in Madrid. 

Prec. Is this a dream ? 0, if it be a dream, 
Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet ! 
Eepeat thy stoiy ! Say I 'm not deceived ! 
Say that I do not dream ! I am awake ; 
This is the Gipsy camp ; this is Victorian, 
And this his friend, Hypolito ! Speak ! speak ! 
Let me not wake and find it all a dream ! 

Vict. It is a dream, sweet child ! a waking dream, 
A blissful certainty, a vision bright 
Of that rare happiness, which even on earth 
Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich, 
As thou wast ever beautiful and good ; 
And I am now the beggar. 

Prec. (giving him her hand). I have still 
A hand to give. 

Chispa, (aside). And I have two to take. 
I Ve heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives almonds 
To those who have no teeth. That 's nuts to crack. 
I Ve teeth to spare, but where shall I find almonds ? 

Vict What more of this strange story ? 

Chispa. Nothing more. 

Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the village 
Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde, 
The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag, 
Who stole you in your childhood, has confessed ; 
And probably they '11 hang her for the crime, 
To make the celebration more complete. 

Vict No ; let it be a day of general joy ; 
Fortune comes well to all, that comes not late. 
Now let us join Don Carlos. 

Hyp. So farewell, 

The student's wandering life ! Sweet serenades, 
Sung under ladies' windows in the night, 
And all that makes vacation beautiful ! 
To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcala, 



344 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

To you, ye radiant visions of romance, 
Written in books, but here surpassed by truth, 
The Bachelor Hypolito returns, 
And leaves the Gipsy with the Spanish Student. 

Scene VI. A Pass in the Guadarrama Mountains, Early morning. 
A Muleteer crosses the Stage, sitting sideways on his mide, and lighting 
a paper cigar with flint and steel. 



If thou art sleeping, maiden, 

Awake and open thy door, 
'Tis the break of day, and we m ust away, 

O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. 

Wait not to find thy slippers, 

But come with thy naked feet ; 
We shall have to pass through the dewy grass, 

And waters wide and fleet. 

Disappears down the pass. Enter a Monk. A Shepherd appears on 
the roclcs above. 

Monk. Ave Maria, gratia plena. Old J good man ! 

Shep. Ola! 
/ Monk. Is this the road to Segovia? 

Shep. It is, your reverence. 

Monk. How far is it? 

Shep. I do not know. 

Monk. What is that yonder in the valley? 

Shep. San Ildefonso. 

Monk. A long way to breakfast. 

Shep. Ay, marry. 

Monk. Are there robbers in these mountains ? 

Shep. Yes, and worse than that. 

Monk. What? 

Shep. Wolves. 

Monk. Santa Maria ! Come with me to San Ildefonso, and thou 
shalt be well rewarded. 

Shep. What wilt thou, give me? 

Monk. An Agnus Dei and my benediction. 

They disappear. A mounted Contrabandista passes, wrapped in hh 
cloak, and a gun at his saddle-bow. He goes down the pass singing. 

SONG. 

Worn with speed is my good steed, 

And I march me hurried, worried; 

Onward, caballito mio, 

With the white star in thy forehead ! 

Onward, for here comes the Honda, 

And I hear their rifles crack I 

Ay, jaleo ! Ay, ay, jaleo! 

Ay, jaleo 1 They cross our track. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 345 

'ong dies away. Enter Preciosa, on horseback, attended by Victo- 
rian, Htpolito, Don Carlos, and Chispa, on foot, and armed. 

Vict. This is the highest point. Here let us rest. 
See, Preciosa, see how all about us, 
Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains 
Receive the benediction of the sun ! 
glorious sight ! 

Prec. Most beautiful, indeed ! 

Hyp. Most wonderful ! 

Vict. And in the vale below, 

Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds, 
San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries, 
Sends up a salutation to the morn, 
As if an army smote their brazen shields, 
And shouted victory ! 

Prec. And which way lies 

Segovia? 

Vict. At a great distance yonder. 
Dost thou not see it? 

Prec. No. I do not see it. 

Vict. The merest flaw that dents the horizon' edge. 
There, yonder ! 

Hyp. 'Tis a notable old town, 

Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, 
And an Alcazar, builded by the Moors, 
Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Bias 
Was fed on Pan del Rey. 0, many a time 
Out of its grated windows have I looked 
Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma, 
That, like a serpent through the valley creeping, 
Glides at its foot. 

Prec. 0, yes ! I see it now, 

Yet rather with my heart than with mine eyes, 
So faint it is. And all my thoughts sail thither, 
Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward urged 
Against all stress of accident, as, in 
The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide, 
Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains, 
And there were wrecked and perished in the sea ! (She weeps.) 

Vict. gentle spirit ! Thou didst bear unmoved 
Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate ! 
But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee 
Melts thee to tears ! 0, let thy weary heart 
Lean upon mine ! and it shall faint no more, 
Nor thirst, nor hunger; but be comforted 
And filled with my affection. 

Prec. Stay no longer ! 

My father waits. Methinks I see him there. 



346 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Now looking from the window, and now watching 
Each sound of wheels or foot-fall in the street, 
And saying, " Hark she comes ! " father ! father ! 

They descend the pass. Chispa remains behind. 

Chispa. I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and 
alack-a-day ! Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither win 
nor lose. Thus I wag through the world, half the time on foot, and 
the other half walking; and always as merry as a thunder-storm in 
the night. And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who 
knows what may happen? Patience, and shuffle the cards! lam 
not yet so bald, that you can see my brains; and perhaps, after all, I 
shall some day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. Benedicite ! 

\_Eodt. 

A pause. Then enter BartolomIs wildly as if in pursuit, with a carbine 
in his hand. 

Bart. They passed this way ! I hear their horses' hoofs 1 
Yonder I see them ! Come sweet caramillo, 
This serenade shall be the Gipsy's last ! 

Fires down the pass. 

Ha! ha! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo! 
Well whistled! — I have missed her!— my God ! 

[The shot is returned, Bartolom^ falls. 



THE SONG OF -HIAWATHA. 



INTRODUCTION. 

Should you ask me, whence these stories? 
Whence these legends and traditions, 
With the odours of the forest, 
With the dew and damp of meadows, 
With the curling smoke of wigwams 3 
With the rushing of great rivers, 
With their frequent repetitions, 
And their wild reverberations, 
As of thunder in the mountains ? 

I should answer, I should tell yon, 
" From the forests and the prairies, 
From the great lakes of the Northland, 
From the land of the Ojibways, 
From the land of the Dacotahs, 
From the mountains, moors, and fenlands, 
Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Feeds among the reeds and rushes. 
I repeat them as I heard them 
From the lips of Nawadaha, 
The musician, the sweet singer. 

Should you ask where Nawadaha 
Found these songs, so wild and wayward, 
Found these legends and traditions, 
I should answer, I should tell you, 
" In the bird's-nests of the forest, 
In the lodges of the beaver, 
In the hoof -prints of the bison, 
In the eyry of the eagle ! 

" All the wild-fowl sang them to him, 
In the moorlands and the fenlands, 
In the melancholy marshes; 
Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, 
Mahng, the loon, the wild goose, Wawa, 



348 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa ! " 

If still further you should ask me, 
Saying, " Who was Nawadaha? 
Tell us of this Nawadaha," 
I should answer your inquiries 
Straightway in such words as follow. 

" In the Vale of Tawasentha, 
In the green and silent valley, 
By the pleasant water-courses, 
Dwelt the singer Nawadaha. 
Round about the Indian village 
Spread the meadows and the corn-fields, 
And beyond them stood the forest, 
Stood the groves of singing pine-trees, 
Green in Summer, white in Winter, 
Ever sighing, ever singing. 

" And the pleasant water-courses, 
You could trace them through the valley, 
By the rushing in the Spring-time, 
By the alders in the Summer, 
By the white fog in the Autumn, 
By the black line in the Winter; 
And beside them dwelt the singer, 
In the Vale of Tawasentha, 
In the green and silent valley. 
' " There he sang of Hiawatha, 
Sang the song of Hiawatha, 
Sang his wondrous birth and being, 
How he prayed and how he fasted, 
How he lived, and toiled, and suffered, 
That the tribes of men might prosper, 
That he might advance his people ! " 

Ye who love the haunts of Nature, 
Love the sunshine of the meadow, 
Love the shadow of the forest, 
Love the wind among the branches, 
And the rain-shower and the snow-storm, 
And the rushing of great rivers 
Through their palisades of pine-trees, 
And the thunder in the mountains, 
Whose innumerable echoes 
Flap like eagles in their eyries ; — 
Listen to these wild traditions, 
To this Song of Hiawatha? 

Ye who love a nation's legends, 
Love the ballads of a people, 
That like voices from afar off 
Call to us to pause and listen, 



THE PEACE-PIPE. 349 

Speak in tones so plain and childlike, 
Scarcely can the ear distinguish 
Whether they are sung or spoken ; — 
Listen to this Indian Legend, 
To this Song of Hiawatha ! 

Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, 
Who have faith in God and Nature, 
Who believe, that in all ages 
Every human heart is human, 
That in even savage bosoms 
There are longings, yearnings, strivings 
For the good they comprehend not, 
That the feeble hands and helpless, 
Groping blindly in the darkness, 
Touch God's right hand in that darkness 
And are lifted up and strengthened; — ■ 
Listen to this simple story, 
To this Song of Hiawatha ! 

Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles 
Through the green lanes of the country, 
Where the tangled barberry-bushes 
Hang their tufts of crimson berries 
Over stone walls gray with mosses. 
Pause by some neglected graveyard, 
For a while to muse, and ponder 
On a half-effaced inscription, 
Written with little skill of song-craft, 
Homely phrases, but each letter 
Full of hope and yet of heart-break, 
Full of all the tender pathos 
Of the Here and the Hereafter; — 
Stay and read this rude inscription, 
Eead this Song of Hiawatha ! 



L 

THE PEACE-PIPE. 

On the Mountains of the Prairie, 
On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
He the Master of Life, descending, 
On the red crags of the quarry 
Stood erect, and called the nations, 
Called the tribes of men together. 

From his foot-prints flowed a river, 
Leaped into the light of morning, 
O'er the precipice plunging downward 
Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet. 



350 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

And the Spirit, stooping earthward, 
"With his finger on the meadow 
Traced a winding pathway for it, 
Saying to it, " Run in this way ! " 

From the red stone of the quarry 
With his hand he broke a fragment, 
Moulded it into a pipe-head, 
Shaped and fashioned it with figures; 
From the margin of the river 
Took a long reed for a pipe-stem, 
AVith its dark green leaves upon it; 
Filled the pipe with bark of willow; 
With the bark of the red willow; 
Breathed upon the neighbouring forest, 
Made its great boughs chafe together, 
Till in flame they burst and kindled; 
And erect upon the mountains, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe, 
As a signal to the nations. 

And the smoke rose slowly, slowly, 
Through the tranquil air of morning, 
First a single line of darkness, 
Then a denser, bluer vapour, 
Then a snow-white cloud unfolding 
Like the tree-tops of the forest, 
Ever rising, rising, rising, 
Till it touched the top of heaven, 
Till it broke against the heaven, 
And rolled outward all around it. 

From the Vale of Tawasentha, 
From the Valley of Wyoming, 
From the groves of Tuscaloosa, 
From the far-off Rocky Mountains, 
From the Northern lakes and rivers, 
All the tribes beheld the signal, 
Saw the distant smoke ascending, 
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe. 

And the prophets of the nations 
Said : " Behold it, the Pukwana ! 
By this signal from afar off, 
Bending like a wand of willow, 
Waving like a hand that beckons, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
Calls the tribes of men together, 
Calls the warriors to his council ! " 

Down the rivers, o'er the prairies, 
Came the warriors of the nations, 
Came the Delawares and Mohawks, 



THE PEACE-PIPE. 351 

Came the Choctaws and Camanches, 
Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet, 
Came the Pawnees and Omawhaws, 
Came the Mandans and Dacotahs, 
Came the Hurons and Ojibways, 
All the warriors drawD together 
By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, 
To the Mountains of the Prairie, 
To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry. 

And they stood there on the meadow, 
With their weapons and their war-gear, 
Painted like the leaves of Autumn, 
Painted like the sky of morning, 
Wildly glaring at each other; 
In their faces stern defiance, 
In their hearts the feuds of ages, 
The hereditary hatred, 
The ancestral thirst of vengeance. 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
The Creator of the nations, 
Looked upon them with compassion, 
With paternal love and pity; 
Looked upon their wrath and wrangling 
But as quarrels among children, 
But as feuds and fights of children ! 

Over them he stretched his right hand, 
To subdue their stubborn natures, 
To allay their thirst and fever, 
By the shadow of his right hand; 
Spake to them with voice majestic 
As the sound of far-off waters, 
Falling into deep abysses, 
Warning, chiding, spake in this wise : — 

" my children ! my poor children ! 
Listen to the words of wisdom, 
Listen to the words of warning, 
From the lips of the Great Spirit, 
From the Master of Life, who made you ! 

" I have given you lands to hunt in, 
I have given you streams to fish in, 
I have given you bear and bison, 
I have given you roe and reindeer, 
I have given you brant and beaver, 
Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl, 
Filled the rivers full of fishes; 
Why then are you not contented? 
Why then will you hunt each other? 

" I am weary of your quarrels, 
Weary of your wars and bloodshed. 



352 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Weary of your prayers for vengeance, 
Of your wranglings and dissensions; 
All your strength is in your union, 
All your danger is in discord; 
Therefore be at peace henceforward, 
And as brothers live together. 

" I will send a Prophet to you, 
A Deliverer of the nations, 
Who shall guide you and shall teach you, 
Who shall toil and suffer with you. 
If you listen to his counsels, 
You will multiply and prosper; 
If his warnings pass unheeded, 
You will fade away and perish ! 

" Bathe now in the stream before you, 
Wash the war-paint from your faces, 
Wash the blood-stains from your fingers, 
Bury your war-clubs and your weapons, 
Break the red stone from this quarry, 
Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes, 
Take the reeds that grow beside you, 
Deck them with your brightest feathers, 
Smoke the calumet together, 
And as brothers live henceforward ! " 

Then upon the ground the warriors 
Threw their cloaks and shirts of deer-skin, 
Threw their weapons and their war-gear, 
Leaped into the rushing river, 
Washed the war-paint from their faces. 
Clear above them flowed the water, 
Clear and limpid from the footprints 
Of the Master of Life descending ; 
Dark below them flowed the water, 
Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson, 
As if blood were mingled with it ! 

From the river came the warriors, 
Clean and washed from all their war-paint ; 
On the banks their clubs they buried, 
Buried all their warlike weapons. 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
The Great Spirit, the Creator, 
Smiled upon his helpless children ! 

And in silence all the warriors 
Broke the red stone of the quarry, 
Smoothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes, 
Broke the long reeds by the river, 
Decked them with their brightest feathers, 
And departed each one homeward, 
While the Master of Life, ascending. 



THE FOUR "WINDS. 

Through the opening of cloud-curtains, 
Through the doorways of the heaven, 
Vanished from before their faces, 
In the smoke that rolled around him, 
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe ! 



253 



II. 



THE FOUR WINDS. 

" Honour be to Mudjekeewis ! " 
Cried the warriors, cried the old men, 
When he came in triumph homeward 
With the sacred Belt of Wampum, 
From the regions of the North- Wind, 
From the kingdom of Wabasso, 
From the land of the White Rabbit. 

He had stolen the Belt of Wampum 
From the neck of Mishe-Mokwa, 
From the Great Bear of the mountains, 
From the terror of the nations, 
As he lay asleep and cumbrous 
On the summit of the mountains, 
Like a rock with mosses on it, 
Spotted brown and gray with mosses. 

Silently he stole upon him, 
Till the red nails of the monster 
Almost touched him, almost scared him, 
Till the hot breath of his nostrils 
Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis, 
As he drew the Belt of Wampum 
Over the round ears, that heard not, 
Over the small eyes, that saw not, 
Over the long nose and nostrils, 
The black muffle of the nostrils, 
Out of which the heavy breathing 
Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis. 

Then he swung aloft his war-club, 
Shouted loud and long his war-cry, 
Smote the- mighty Mishe-Mokwa 
In the middle of the forehead, 
Right between the eyes he smote him. 

With the heavy blow bewildered, 
Rose the Great Bear of the mountains' 
But his knees beneath him trembled^ 
And he whimpered like a woman, 
As he reeled and staggered forward, 
As he sat upon his haunches; 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis, 



354 THE SOTTO OF HIAWATHA. 

Standing fearlessly before him, 
Taunted him in loud derision, 
Spake disdainfully in this wise : — 

" Hark you, Bear ! you are a coward, 
And no Brave, as you pretended; 
Else you would not cry and whimper 
Like a miserable woman ! 
Bear ! you know our tribes are hostile, 
Long have been at war together; 
Now you find that we are strongest, 
You go sneaking in the forest, 
You go hiding in the mountains ! 
Had you conquered me in battle 
Not a groan would I have uttered; 
But you, Bear ! sit here and whimper, 
And disgrace your tribe by crying, 
Like a wretched Shaugodaya, 
Like a cowardly old woman I n 

Then again he raised his war-club, 
Smote again the Mishe-Mokwa 
In the middle of his forehead, 
Broke his skull, as ice is broken 
When one goes to fish in Winter. 
Thus was slain the Mishe-Mokwa, 
He the Great Bear of the mountains, 
He the terror of the nations. 

"Honour be to Mudjekeewis !*' 
With a shout exclaimed the people, 
" Honour be to Mudjekeewis ! 
Henceforth he shall be the West- Wind, 
And hereafter and for ever 
Shall he hold supreme dominion 
Over all the winds of heaven. 
Call him no more Mudjekeewis, 
Call him Kabeyun, the West-Wind f* 

Thus was Mudjekeewis chosen 
Father of the Winds of Heaven. 
For himself he kept the West- Wind, 
Gave the others to his children; 
Unto Wabun gave the East- Wind, 
Gave the South to Shawondasee, 
And the North- Wind, wild and cruel, 
To the fierce Kabibonokka. 

Young and beautiful was Wabun; 
He it was who brought the morning, 
He it was whose silver arrows 
Chased the dark o'er hill and valley; 
He it was whose cheeks were painted 
With the brightest streaks of crimson, 



THE FOUR "WINDS. 355 

And whose voice awoke the village, 
Called the deer, and called the hunter. 

Lonely in the sky was Wabun; 
Though the birds sang gaily to him, 
Though the wild-flowers of the meadow 
Filled the air with odours for him, 
Though the forests and the rivers 
Sang and shouted at his coming, 
Still his heart was sad within him, 
For he was alone in heaven. 

But one morning, gazing earthward, 
While the village still was sleeeping, 
And the fog lay on the river, 
Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise, 
He beheld a maiden walking 
All alone upon a meadow, 
Gathering water-flags and rushes 
By a river in the meadow. 

Every morning, gazing earthward, 
Still the first thing he beheld there 
"Was her blue eyes looking at him, 
Two blue lakes among the rushes. 
And he loved the lonely maiden, 
Who thus waited for his coming; 
For they both were solitary, 
She on earth and he in heaven. 

And he wooed her with caresses, 
Wooed her with his smile of sunshine, 
With his fluttering words he wooed her, 
With his sighing and his singing, 
Gentlest whispers in the branches, 
Softest music, sweetest odours, 
Till he drew her to his bosom, 
Folded in his robes of crimson. 
Till into a star he changed her, 
Trembling still upon his bosom ; 
And for ever in the heavens 
They are seen together walking, 
Wabun and the Wabun- Annung, 
Wabun and the Star of Morning. 

But the fierce Kabibonokka 
Had his dwelling among icebergs, 
In the everlasting snow-drifts, 
In the kingdom of Wabasso, 
In the land of the White Rabbit. 
He it was whose hand in Autumn 
Painted all the trees with scarlet, 
Stained the leaves with red and yellow; 
He it was who sent the snow-flakes, 



356 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Sifting, hissing through the forest, 
Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers, 
Drove the loon and sea-gull southward, 
Drove the cormorant and curlew 
To their nests of sedge and sea-tang 
In the realms of Shawondasee. 

Once the fierce Kabibonokka 
Issued from his lodge of snow-drifts, 
From his home among the icebergs, 
And his hair, with snow besprinkled, 
Streamed behind him like a river, 
Like a black and wintry river, 
As he howled and hurried southward^ 
Over frozen lakes and moorlands. 

There among the reeds and rushes 
Found he Shingebis, the diver, 
Trailing strings of fish behind him, 
O'er the frozen fens and moorlands, 
Lingering still among the moorlands, 
Though his tribe had long departed 
To the land of Shawondasee. 

Cried the fierce Kabibonokka, 
" Who is this that dares to brave me? 
Dares to stay in my dominions, 
When the Wawa has departed, 
When the wild-goose has gone southward. 
And the heron, the'Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Long ago departed southward? 
I will go into his wigwam, 
I will put his smouldering fire out ! " 

And at night Kabibonokka 
To the lodge came wild and wailing, 
Heaped the snow in drifts about it, 
Shouted down into the smoke-flue, 
Shook the lodge-poles in his fury, 
Flapped the curtain of the doorway. 
Shingebis, the diver, feared not, 
Shingebis, the diver, cared not; 
Four great logs had he for fire-wood, 
One for each moon of the winter, 
And for food the fishes served him. 
By his blazing fire he sat there, 
Warm and merry, eating, laughing, 
Singing, " Kabibonokka, 
You are but my fellow-mortal ! " 

Then Kabibonokka entered, 
And though Shingebis, the diver, 
Felt his presence by the coldness, 
Felt his icy breath upon him, 



THE FOUR WINDS. 

Still lie did not cease his singing, 
Still lie did not leave his laughing, 
Only turned the log a little, 
Only made the fire burn brighter, 
Made the sparks fly up the smoke-flue. 

From Kabibonokka's forehead, 
From his snow-besprinkled tresses, 
Drops of sweat fell fast and heavy, 
Making dints upon the ashes, 
As along the eaves of lodges, 
As from drooping boughs of hemlock, 
Drips the melting snow in spring-time, 
Making hollo ws in the snow-drifts. 

Till at last he rose defeated, 
Could not bear the heat and laughter, 
Could not bear the merry singing, 
But rushed headlong through the doorway, 
Stamped upon the crusted snow-drifts, 
Stamped upon the lakes and rivers, 
Made the snow upon them harder, 
Made the ice upon them thicker, 
Challenged Shingebis, the diver, 
To come forth and wrestle with him, 
To come forth and wrestle naked 
On the frozen fens and moorlands. 

Forth went Shingebis, the diver, 
Wrestled all night with the North- Wind, 
Wrestled naked on the moorlands 
With the fierce Kabibonokka, 
Till his panting breath grew fainter, 
Till his frozen grasp grew feebler, 
Till he reeled and staggered backward, 
And retreated, baffled, beaten, 
To the kingdom of Wabasso, 
To the land of the White Babbit, 
Hearing still the gusty laughter, 
Hearing Shingebis, the diver, 
Singing, " Kabibonokka, 
You are but my fellow-mortal ! " 

Shawondasee, fat and lazy, 
Had his dwelling far to southward, 
In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine, 
In the never-ending summer. 
He it was who sent the wood-birds, 
Sent the robin, the Opechee, 
Sent the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swallow, 
Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward, 
Sent the melons and tobacco, 



357 



358 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

And the grapes in purple clusters. 

From his pipe the smoke ascending 
Filled the sky with haze and vapour, 
Filled the air with dreamy softness, 
Gave a twinkle to the water, 
Touched the rugged hills with smoothness, 
Brought the tender Indian Summer 
To the melancholy North-land, 
In the dreary Moon of Snow-shoes. 

Listless, careless Shawondasee ! 
In his life he had one shadow, 
In his heart one sorrow had he. 
Once, as he was gazing northward, 
Far away upon a prairie 
He beheld a maiden standing, 
Saw a tall and slender maiden 
All alone upon a prairie; 
Brightest green were all her garments, 
And her hair was like the sunshine. 

Day by day he gazed upon her, 
Day by day he sighed with passion, 
Day by day his heart within him 
Grew more hot with love and longing 
For the maid with yellow tresses. 
But he was too fat and lazy 
To bestir himself and woo her; 
Yes, too indolent and easy 
To pursue her and persuade her, 
So he only gazed upon her, 
Only sat and sighed with passion 
For the maiden of the prairie. 

Till one morning, looking northward, 
He beheld her yellow tresses 
Changed and covered o'er with whiteness, 
Covered as with whitest snow-flakes. 
" Ah ! my brother from the North-land, 
From the kingdom of Wabasso, 
From the land of the White. Rabbit ! 
You have stolen the maiden from me, 
You have laid your hand upon her, 
You have wooed and won my maiden, 
With your stories of the North-land ! " 

Thus the wretched Shawondasee 
Breathed into the air his sorrow; 
And the South- Wind o'er the prairie 
Wandered warm with sighs of passion, 
With the sighs of Shawondasee, 
Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes^ 
Full of thistle-down the prairie, 



Hiawatha's childhood. 

And the maid with hair like sunshine 
Vanished from his sight for ever; 
Never more did Shawondasee 
See the maid with yellow tresses ! 

Poor deluded Shawondasee ! 
'Twas no woman that you gazed at, 
'Twas no maiden that you sighed for, 
'Twas the prairie dandelion 
That through all the dreamy Summer 
You had gazed at with such longing, 
You had sighed for with such passion, 
And had puffed away for ever, 
Blown into the air with sighing. 
Ah ! deluded Shawondasee ! 

Thus the Four Winds were divided; 
Thus the sons of Mudjekeewis 
Had their stations in the heavens, 
At the corners of the heavens; 
For himself the West- Wind only 
Kept the mighty Mudjekeewis. 

Ill 

hiawatha's childhood. 

Downward through the evening twilight, 
In the days that are forgotten, 
In the unremembered ages, 
From the full moon fell Nokomis, 
Fell the beautiful Nokoinis, 
She a wife, but noV& mother. 

She was sporting with her women, 
Swinging in a swing of grape-vines, 
When her rival, the rejected, 
Full of jealousy and hatred, 
Cut the leafy swing asunder, 
Cut in twain the twisted grape-vines, 
And Nokomis fell affrighted 
Downward through the evening twilight, 
On the Muskoday, the meadow, 
On the prairie full of blossoms. 
" See ! a star falls ! " said the people; 
u From the sky a star is falling ! " 

There among the ferns and mosses, 
There among the prairie lilies, 
On the Muskoday, the meadow, 
In the moonlight and the starlight, 
Fair Nokomis bore a daughter. 
And she called her name Wenonah, 
As the first-born of her daughters. 



359 



360 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA, 

And the daughter of Nokomis 
Grew up like the prairie lilies, 
Grew a tall and slender maiden, 
With the beauty of the moonlight, 
With the beauty of the starlight. 

And Nokomis warned her often, 
Saying oft, and oft repeating, 
" 0, beware of Mudjekeewis, 
Of the West- Wind, Mudjekeewis; 
Listen not to what he tells you; 
Lie not down upon the meadow, 
Stoop not down among the lilies, 
Lest the West- Wind come and harm you ! 

But she heeded not the warning, 
Heeded not those words of wisdom, 
And the West- Wind came at evening, 
Walking lightly o'er the prairie, 
Whispering to the leaves and blossoms, 
Bending low the flowers and grasses, 
Found the beautiful Wenonah, 
Lying there among the lilies, 
Wooed her with his words of sweetness, 
Wooed her with his soft caresses, 
Till she bore a son in sorrow, 
Bore a son of love and sorrow. 

Thus was born my Hiawatha, 
Thus was born the child of wonder; 
But the daughter of Nokomis, 
Hiawatha's gentle mother, 
In her anguish died deserted 
By the West- Wind false and faithless, 
By the heartless Mudjekeewis. 

For her daughter, long and loudly 
Wailed and wept the sad Nokomis; 
" that I were dead ! " she murmured, 
" that I were dead as thou art ! 
No more work, and no more weeping, 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! " 

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
By the shining Big-Sea- Water 
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, 
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. 
Dark behind it rose the forest, 
Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, 
Rose the firs with cones upon them; 
Bright before it beat the water, 
Beat the clear and sunny water, 
Beat the shining Big-Sea- Water. 

There the wrinkled, old Nokomis 



hiawatha's childhood. 361 

Nursed the little Hiawatha, 

Rocked him in his linden cradle, 

Bedded soft in moss and rushes, 

Safely bound with reindeer sinews; 

Stilled his fretful wail by saying, 

" Hush ! the Naked Bear will get thee ! " 

Lulled him into slumber, singing, 

" Ewa-yea ! my little owlet ! 

Who is this, that lights the wigwam ? 

"With his great eyes lights the wigwam? 

Ewa-yea ! my little owlet ! " 

Many things Nokomis taught him 
Of the stars that shine in heaven ; 
Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, 
Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; 
Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, 
Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, 
Flaring far away to northward 
In the frosty nights of Winter; 
Showed the broad, white road in heaven, 
Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, 
Running straight across the heavens, 
Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. 

At the door on summer evenings 
Sat the little Hiawatha; 
Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, 
Heard the lapping of the water, 
Sounds of music, words of wonder; 
" Minne-wawa ! " said the pine-trees, 
" Mudway-aushka ! " said the water. 

Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, 
Flitting through the dusk of evening, 
With the twinkle of its candle 
Lighting up the brakes and bushes, 
And he sang the song of children, 
Sang the song Nokomis taught him : 
u Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, 
Little, flitting, white-fire insect, 
Little, dancing, white-fire creature, 
Light me with your little candle, 
Ere upon my bed I lay me, 
Ere in sleep I close my eyelids ! " 

Saw the moon rise from the water 
Rippling, rounding from the water, 
Saw the flecks and shadows on it, 
Whispered, " What is that, ISTokomis?" 
And the good Nokomis answered* 
" Once a warrior, very angry, 
Seized his grandmother, and threw her 



362 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Up into the sky at midnight; 

Right against the moon he threw her ; 

"lis her body that you see there." 

Saw the rainbow in the heaven, 
In the eastern sky, the rainbow, 
Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" 
And the good Nokomis answered : 
" 'Tis the heaven of flowers you see there; 
All the wild-flowers of the forest, 
All the lilies of the prairie, 
When on earth they fade and perish, 
Blossom in that heaven above us." 

When he heard the owls at midnight, 
Hooting, laughing in the forest, 
f( What is that?" he cried in terror; 
"What is that," he said, " Nokomis?" 
And the good Nokomis answered : 
" That is but the owl and owlet, 
Talking in their native language, 
Talking, scolding at each other." 

Then the little Hiawatha 
Learned of every bird its language, 
Learned their names and all their secrets, 
How they built their nests in Summer, 
Where they hid themselves in Winter, 
Talked with them whene'er he met them, 
Called them ' Hiawatha's Chickens." 

Of all beasts he learned the language, 
Learned their names and all their secrets, 
How the beavers built their lodges, 
Wliere the squirrels hid their acorns, 
How the reindeer ran so swiftly, 
Why the rabbit was so timid, 
v Talked with them whene'er he met them, 

Called them " Hiawatha's Brothers." 

Then Iagoo, the great boaster, 
He the marvellous story-teller, 
He the traveller and the talker, 
He the friend of old Nokomis, 
Made a bow for Hiawatha; 
From a branch of ash he made it, 
From an oak-bough made the arrows, 
Tipped with flint, and winged with f eathers, 
And the cord he made of deer-skin. 

Then he said to Hiawatha : 
" Go, my son, into the forest, 
Where the red-deer herd together, 
Kill for us a famous roebuck, 
Kill for us a deer with antlers ! " 



HIAWATHA S CHILDHOOD. 

Forth into the forest straightway 
All alone walked Hiawatha 
Proudly, with his bow and arrows, 
And the birds sang round him, o'er him, 
" Do not shoot us, Hiawatha ! " 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
" Do not shoot us, Hiawatha ! " 

Up the oak-tree, close beside him, 
Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
In and out among the branches, 
Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree, 
Laughed, and said between his laughing, 
"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!" 

And the rabbit from his pathway 
Leaped aside, and at a distance 
Sat erect upon his haunches, 
Half in fear and half in frolic, 
Saying to the little hunter, 
" Do not shoot me, Hiawatha ! " 

But he heeded not, nor heard them, 
For his thoughts were with the red-deer; 
On their tracks his eyes were fastened, 
Leading downward to the river, 
To the ford across the river, 
And as one in slumber walked he. 

Hidden in the alder-bushes, 
There he waited till the deer came, 
Till he saw two antlers lifted, 
Saw two eyes look from the thicket, 
Saw two nostrils point to windward, 
And a deer came down the pathway, 
Flecked with leafy light and shadow. 
And his heart within him fluttered, 
Trembled like the leaves above him, 
Like the birch-leaf palpitated, 
As the deer came down the pathway. 

Then, upon one knee uprising, 
Hiawatha aimed an arrow; 
Scarce a twig moved with his motion, 
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled, 
But the wary roebuck started, 
Stamped with all his hoofs together, 
Listened with one foot uplifted, 
Leaped as if to meet the arrow; 
Ah ! the singing, fatal arrow, 
Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him/ 

Dead he lay there in the forest, 
By the ford across the river; 



363 



364 THE SONG OP HIAWATHA, 

Beat his timid heart no longer, 
But the heart of Hiawatha 
Throbbed and shouted and exulted, 
As he bore the red-deer homeward, 
And Iagoo and Nokomis 
Hailed his coming with applausesi" 

From the red-deer's hide Nokomis 
Made a cloak for Hiawatha, 
From the red-deer's flesh Nbkomis 
Made a banquet in his honour. 
All the village came and feasted, 
All the guests praised Hiawatha, 
Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge-taha ! 
Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee 1 



IY. 

HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS. 

Out of childhood into manhood 
Now had grown my Hiawatha, 
Skilled in all the craft of hunters, 
Learned in all the lore of old men, 
In all youthful sports and pastimes, 
In all manly arts and labours. 

Swift Of foot was Hiawatha; 
He could shoot an arrow from him, 
And run forward with such fleetness, 
That the arrow fell behind him ! 
Strong of arm was Hiawatha; 
He could shoot ten arrows upward, 
Shoot them with such strength and swiftness, 
That the tenth had left the bowstring 
Ere the first to earth had fallen ! 

He had mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Magic mittens made of deer-skin ; 
When upon his hands he wore them, 
He could smite the rocks asunder, 
He could grind them into powder. 
He had moccasins enchanted, 
Magic moccasins of deer-skin ; 
When he bound them round his ankles, 
When upon his feet he tied them, 
At each stride a mile he measured ! 

Much he questioned old Nokomis 
Of his father Mudjekeewis; 
Learned from her the fatal secret 



HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS. 3C5 

Of the beauty of his mother, 
Of the falsehood of his father ; 
And his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 

Then he said to old Nokomis, 
" I will go to Mudjekeewis, 
See how fares it with my father, 
At the doorways of the West- Wind, 
At the portals of the Sunset ! " 

From his lodge went Hiawatha, 
Dresssed for travel, armed for hunting ; 
Dressed in deer-skin shirt and leggins, 
Richly wrought with quills and wampum ; 
On his head his eagle-feathers, 
Round his waist his belt of wampum ; 
In his hand his bow of ash-wood, 
Strung with sinews of the reindeer ; 
In his quiver oaken arrows, 
Tipped with jasper, winged with feathers ; 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
With his moccasins enchanted. 

Warning said the old jSTokomis, 
" Go not forth, Hiawatha ! 
To the kingdom of the West- Wind, 
To the realms of Mudjekeewis, 
Lest he harm you with his magic, 
Lest he kill you with his cunning ! " 

But the fearless Hiawatha 
Heeded not her woman's warning ; 
Forth he strode into the forest, 
At each stride a mile he measured ; 
Lurid seemed the sky above him, 
Lurid seemed the earth beneath him, 
Hot and close the ah- around him, 
Filled with smoke and fiery vapours, 
As of burning woods and prairies, 
For his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his hearts was. 

So he journeyed westward, westward, 
Left the fleetest deer behind him, 
Left the antelope and bison ; 
Crossed the rushing Esconawbaw, 
Crossed the mighty Mississippi, 
Passed the Mountains of the Prairie, 
Passed the land of Crows and Foxes, 
Passed the dwellings of the Blackfeet, 
Came unto the Rocky Mountains, 
To the kingdom of the West- Wind, 
Where upon the gusty summits 

2 A 



266 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Sat the ancient Mudjekeewis, 
Ruler of the winds of heaven. 

Filled with awe was Hiawatha 
* At the aspect of his father. 
On the air about him wildly 
Tossed and streamed his cloudy tresses, 
Gleamed like drifting snow his tresses, 
Glared like Ishkoodah, the comet, 
Like the star with fiery tresses. 

Filled with joy was Mudjekeewis 
When he looked on Hiawatha, 
S$\w his youth rise up before him 
In the face of Hiawatha 
Saw the beauty of Wenonah 
From the grave rise up before him. 

" Welcome !" said he, " Hiawatha, 
To the kingdom of the West- Wind i 
Long have I been waiting for you ! 
Youth is lovely, age is lonely, 
Youth is fiery, age is frosty; 
You bring back the days departed, 
You bring back my youth of passion, 
And the beautiful Wenonah !" 

Many days they talked together, 
Questioned, listened, waited, answered j 
Much the mighty Mudjekeewis 
Boasted of his ancient prowess, 
Of his perilous adventures, 
His indomitable courage, 
His invulnerable body. 

Patiently sat Hiawatha, 
Listening to his father's boasting; 
With a smile he sat and listened, 
Uttered neither threat nor menace, 
Neither word nor look betrayed him, 
But his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 

Then he said, " Mudjekeewis, 
Is there nothing that can harm you? 
Nothing that you are afraid of ? " 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis, 
Grand and gracious in his boasting, 
Answered saying, " There is nothing, 
Nothing but the black rock yonder, 
Nothing but the fatal Wawbeek!" 

And he looked at Hiawatha 
With a wise look and benignant, 
With a countenance paternal, 
Looked with pride upon the beauty 



EJAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS. 3S~ 

Of his tall and graceful figure, 
Saying, " my Hiawatha ! 
Is there anything can harm you 2 
Anything you are afraid of V* 

But the wary Hiawatha 
Paused awhile, as if uncertain, 
Held his peace, as if resolving, 
And then answered, " There is nothing, 
Nothing but the bulrush yonder, 
Nothing but the great Apukwa !" 

And as Mudjekeewis, rising. 
Stretched his hand to pluck the bulrush, 
Hiawatha cried in terror, 
Cried in well dissembled terror, 
" Kago ! kago ! do not touch it ! " 
u Ah, kaween ! " said Mudjekeewis, 
"No, indeed, I will not touch it \" 

Then they talked of other matters; 
First of Hiawatha's brothers, 
First of Wabun, of the East-Wind, 
Of the South- Wind, Shawondasee, 
Of the North, Kabibonokka ; 
Then of Hiawatha's mother, 
Of the beautiful Wenonah, 
Of her birth upon the meadow, 
Of her death, as old Nokomis 
Had remembered and related. 

And he cried, " Mudjekeewis, 
It was you who killed Wenonah, 
Took her young life and her beauty, 
Broke the Lily of the Prairie, 
Trampled it beneath your footsteps ; 
You confess it ! you confess it ! " 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis 
Tossed upon the wind his tresses, 
Bowed his hoary head in anguish, 
With a silent nod assented. 

Then up started Hiawatha, 
And with threatening look and gesture 
Laid his hand upon the black rock, 
On the fatal Wawbeek laid it, 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Rent the jutting crag asunder, _* 

Smote and crushed it into fragments, 
Hurled them madly at his father, 
The remorseful Mudjekeewis, 
For his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 

But the ruler of the West- Wind 



368 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA, 

Blew the Iragments backward from Mm, 
Witlj. the breathing of his nostrils, 
With the tempest of his anger, 
Blew them back at his assailant; 
Seized the bulrush, the Apukwa, 
Dragged it with its roots and fibres 
From the margin of the meadow, 
From its ooze, the giant bulrush ; 
Long and loud laughed Hiawatha ? 

Then began the deadly conflict, 
Hand to hand among the mountains; 
From his eyrie screamed the eagle, 
The Keneu, the great war-eagle; 
Sat upon the crags around them, 
Wheeling flapped his wings above them. 

Like a tall tree in the tempest 
Bent and lashed the giant bulrush; 
And in masses huge and heavy 
Crashing fell the fatal Wawbeek; 
Till the earth shook with the tumult 
And confusion of the battle, 
. And the air was full of shoutings, 
And the thunder of the mountains, 
Starting, answered, " Baim-wawa ! " 

Back retreated Mudjekeewis, 
Bushing westward o'er the mountains, 
Stumbling westward down the mountains, 
Three whole days retreated fighting, 
Still pursued by Hiawatha 
To the doorways of the West- Wind, 
To the portals of the Sunset, 
To the earth's remotest border, 
Where into the empty spaces 
Sinks the sun, as a flamingo 
Drops into her nest at nightfall, 
In the melancholy marshes. 

" Hold ! " at length cried Mudjekeewis, 
" Hold, my son, my Hiawatha ! 
*Tis impossible to kill me, 
For you cannot kill the immortal. 
I have put you to this trial, 
But to know and prove your courage; 
Now receive the prize of valour ! 

" Go back to your home and people, 
Live among them, toil among them, 
Cleanse the earth from all that harms ifc, 
Clear the fishing-grounds and rivers, 
Slay all monsters and magicians, 
All the Wendigoes, the giants, 



HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS. 

All the serpents, the Kenabeeks, 

As I slew the Mishe-Mokwa, 

Slew the Great Bear of the mountains. 

" And at last when Death draws near you, 
When the awful eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon you in the darkness, 
I will share my kingdom with you, 
Ruler shall you be thenceforward 
Of the Northwest-wind, Keewaydin, 
Of the home-wind, the Keewaydin." 

Thus was fought that famous battle 
In the dreadful days of Shah-shah, 
In the days long since departed, 
In the kingdom of the West- Wind. 
Still the hunter sees its traces 
Scattered far o'er hill and valley ; 
Sees the giant bulrush growing 
By the ponds and water-courses, 
Sees the masses of the Wawbeek 
Lying still in every valley. 

Homeward now went Hiawatha ; 
Pleasant was the landscape round bim. 
Pleasant was the air above him, 
For the bitterness of anger 
Had departed wholly from him, 
From his brain the thought of vengeance, 
From his heart the burning fever. 

Only once his pace he slackened, 
Only once he paused or halted, 
Paused to purchase heads of arrows 
Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
Where the Falls of Minnehaha 
Flash and gleam among the oak-trees. 
Laugh and- leap into the valley. 

There the ancient Arrow-maker 
Made his arrow-heads of sandstone, 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony, 
Arrow-heads of flint and jasper, 
Smoothed and sharpened at the edges, 
Hard and polished, keen and costly. 

With him dwelt his dark-eyed daughter, 
Wayward as the Minnehaha, 
With her moods of shade and sunshine, 
Eyes that smiled and frowned alternate, 
Feet as rapid as the river, 
Tresses flowing like the water, 
And as musical a taughter ; 
And he named her from the river, 



370 THE SOKG OF HIAWATHA.. 

From the water-fall he named her, - 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water. 

Was it then for heads of arrows. 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony, 
Arrow-heads of flint and jasper, 
That my Hiawatha halted 
In the land of the Daeotahs ? 

Was it not to see the maiden, 
See the face of Laughing Water 
Peeping from behind the curtain, 
Hear the rustling of her garments 
From behind the waving curtain, 
As one sees the Minnehaha 
Gleaming, glancing through the branches 
As one hears the Laughing Water 
From behind its screen of branches? 

Who shall say what thoughts and visions 
Fill the fiery brains of young men ? 
- Who shall say what dreams of beauty 
Filled the heart of Hiawatha? 
All he told to old Nokomis, 
When he reached the lodge at sunset, 
Was the meeting with his father, 
Was his fight with Mudjekeewis; 
Not a word he said of arrows, 
Not a word of Laughing Water? 

Y. 
hiawatha's fasting. 

You shall hear how Hiawatha 
Prayed and fasted in the forest, 
Not for greater skill in hunting 
Not for greater craft in fishing, 
Not for triumphs in the battle, 
And renown among the warriors, 
But for profit of the people, 
For advantage of the nations. 

First he built a lodge for fasting, 
* Built a wigwam in the forest, 
By the shining Big-Sea- Water, 
In the blithe and pleasant Spring-time^ 
In the Moon of Leaves he built it, 
And, with dreams and visions many, 
Seven whole days and nights he fasted. 

On the first day of his fasting 
Through the leafy woods he wandered; 
Saw the deer start from the thicket, 
Saw the rabbit in his burrow. 



HIAWATHA'S FASTING. 371 

Heard the pheasant, Bena, drumming, 
Heard the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Rattling in his hoard of acorns, 
Saw the pigeon, the Omeme, 
Building nests among the pine-trees, 
And in flocks the wild goose, Wawa, 
Flying to the fen-lands northward, 
Whirring, wailing far above him. 
"Master of Life!" he cried, desponding, 
"Must our lives depend on these things?'® 

On the next day of his fasting 
By the river's brink he wandered, 
Through the Muskoday, the meadow, 
Saw the wild rice, Mahnomonee, 
Saw the blueberry, Meenahga, 
And the strawberry, Odahmin, 
And the gooseberry, Shahbomin, 
And the grape-vine, the Bemahgut, 
Trailing o'er the alder-branches, 
Filling all the air with fragrance ! 
" Master of Life ! " he cried, desponding, 
"Must our lives depend on these things?*' 

On the third day of his fasting 
By the lake he sat and pondered, 
By the still, transparent water; 
Saw the sturgeon, Nahma, leaping, 
Scattering drops like beads of wampum. 
Saw the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 
Like a sunbeam in the water, 
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 
And the herring, Okahahwis, 
And the Shawgashee, the craw-fish ! 
"Master of Life!" he cried, desponding, 
" Must our lives depend on these things? " 

On the fourth day of his fasting 
In his lodge he lay exhausted; 
From his couch of leaves'and branches 
Gazing with half -op en eyelids, 
Full of shadowy dreams and visions, 
On the dizzy, swimming landscape, 
On the gleaming of the water, 
On the splendour of the sunset. 

And ho saw a youth approaching, 
Dressed in garments green and yellow, 
Coming through the purple twilight, 
Through the splendour of the sunset; 
Plumes of green bent o'er his forehead, 
And his hair was soft and golden. 

Standing at the open doorway, 



372 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Long he looked at Hiawatha, 
Looked with pity and compassion 
On his wasted form and features, 
And, in accents like the sighing 
Of the South- Wind in the tree-tops, 
Said he, " my Hiawatha ! 
All your prayers are heard in heaven, 
For you pray not like the others, 
Not for greater skill in hunting, 
Not for greater craft in fishing, 
Not for triumph in the battle, 
Nor renown among the warriors, 
But for profit of the people, 
For advantage of the nations. 

" From the Master of Life descending, 
I, the friend of man, Mondamin, 
Come to warn you and instruct you, 
How by struggle and by labour 
You shall gain what you have prayed for., 
Rise up from youi bed of branches, 
Rise, youth, and wrestle with, me!" 
Faint with famine, Hiawatha 
Started from his bed of branches, 
From the twilight of his wigwam 
Forth into the flush of sunset 
Came, and wrestled with Mondamin; 
At his touch he felt new courage 
Throbbing in his brain and bosom, 
Felt new life and hope and vigour 
Run through every nerve and fibre. 

So they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset, 
And the more they strove and struggled, 
Stronger still grew Hiawatha; 
Till the darkness fell around them, 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, . 
From her nest among the pine-trees. 
Gave a cry of lamentation, 
Gave a scream of pain and famine. 

" 'Tis enough ! " then said Mondamin, 
Smiling upon Hiawatha, 
" But to-morrow, when the sun sets, 
I will come again to try you." 
And he vanished, and was seen not; 
Whether sinking as the rain sinks, 
Whether rising as the mists rise, 
Hiawatha saw not, knew not, 
Only saw that he had vanished. 
Leaving him alone and fainting, 



HIAWATHA'S FASTING. 873 

With the misty lake below him, 
And the reeling stars above him. 

On the morrow and the next day, 
When the sun through heaven descending, 
Like a red and burning cinder 
From the hearth of the Great Spirit^ 
Fell into the western waters, 
Came Mondamin for the trial, 
For the strife with Hiawatha; 
Came as silent as the dew comes. 
From the empty air appearing, 
Into empty air returning, 
Taking shape when earth it touches, 
But invisible to all men 
In its coming and its going. 

Thrice they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset, 
Till the darkness fell around them, 
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her nest among the pine trees, 
Uttered her loud cry of famine, 
And Mondamin paused to listen. 

Tall and beautiful he stood there, 
In his garments green and yellow ! ' 
To and fro his plumes above him 
Waved and nodded with his breathing, 
And the sweat of the encounter 
Stood like drops of dew upon him. 

And he cried, " Hiawatha! 
Bravely have you wrestled with me, 
Thrice have wrestled stoutly with me, 
And the Master of Life, who sees us, 
He will give to you the triumph ! " 

Then he smiled, and said : " To-morrow 
Is the last day of your conflict, 
Is the last day of your fasting. 
You will conquer and o'ercome me; 
Make a bed for me to he in, 
Where the rain may fall upon me, 
Where the sun may come and warm me; 
Strip these garments, green and yellow, 
Strip this nodding plumage' from me, 
Lay me in the earth, and make it 
Soft and loose and light above me. 

" Let no hand disturb my slumber, 
Let no weed nor worm molest me, 
Let not Kahgahgee, the raven, 
Come to haunt me and molest me, 
Only come yourself to watch me, 



374 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Till I wake, and start, and quicken, 
Till I leap into the sunshine." 

And thus saying, he departed; 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha, 
But he heard the Wawonaissa, 
Heard the whippoorwill complaining, 
Perched upon his lonely wigwam; 
Heard the rushing Sebowisha, 
Heard the rivulet rippling near him, 
Talking to the darksome forest; 
Heard the sighing of the branches, 
As they lifted and subsided 
At the passing of the night-wind, 
Heard them, as one hears in slumber 
Far-off murmurs, dreamy whispers : 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha. 

On the morrow came Nokomis, 
On the seventh day of his fasting, 
Came with food for Hiawatha, 
Came imploring and bewailing, 
Lest his hunger should o'ercome him, 
Lest his fasting should be fatal. 

But he tasted not, and touched not, 
Only said to her, " Nokomis, 
Wait until the sun is setting, 
Till the darkness falls around us, 
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Crying from the desolate marshes, 
Tells us that the day is ended." 

Homeward weeping went Nokomis, 
Sorrowing for her Hiawatha, 
Fearing lest his strength should fail him, 
Lest his fasting should be fatal. 
He meanwhile sat weary waiting 
For the coming of Mondamin, 
Till the shadows, pointing eastward, 
Lengthened over field and forest, 
Till the sun dropped from the heaven, 
Floating on the waters westward, 
As a red leaf in the Autumn 
Falls and floats upon the water, 
Falls and sinks into its bosom. 

And behold ! the young Mondamin, 
With his soft and shining tresses, 
With his garments green and yellow, 
With his long and glossy plumage, 
Stood and beckoned at the doorway. 
And as one in slumber walking, 
Pale and haggard, but undaunted, 



HIAWATHA'S FASTING. 375 

From the wigwam Hiawatha 
Came and wrestled with Mondamin. 

Round about him spun the landscape. 
Sky and forest reeled together, 

And his 'strong heart leaped within him, •• 

As the sturgeon leaps and struggles 
In a net to break its meshes. 
Like a ring of fire around him 
Blazed and flared the red horizon, 
And a hundred suns seemed looking 
At the combat of the wrestlers. 

Suddenly upon the greensward 
All alone stood Hiawatha, 
Panting with his wild exertion, 
Palpitating with the struggle; 
And before him, breathless, lifeless, 
Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled, 
Plumage torn, and garments tattered : 
Dead he lay there in the sunset. 

And victorious Hiawatha 
Made the grave as he commanded, 
Stripped the garments from Mondamin. 
Stripped his tattered plumage from him, 
Laid him in the earth, and made it 
Soft and loose and light above him ; 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From the melancholy moor-lands, 
Gave a cry of lamentation, 
Gave a cry of pain and anguish ! 

Homeward then went Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis, 
And the seven days of his fasting 
Were accomplished and completed. 
But the place was not forgotten 
"Where he wrestled with Mondamin; 
Nor forgotten nor neglected 
"Was the grave where lay Mondamin, 
Sleeping in the rain and sunshine, 
Where his scattered plumes and garments 
Faded in the rain and sunshine. 

Day by day did Hiawatha 
Go to wait and watch beside it; 
Kept the dark mould soft above it, 
Kept it clean from weeds and insects, 
Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings, 
Kahgahgee, the king of ravens. 

Till at length a small green feather 
From the earth shot slowly upward, 
Then another and another, 



376 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

And before the Summer ended 
Stood the maize in all its beauty, 
With its shining robes about it, 
And its long, soft, yellow tresses ! 
And in rapture Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, " It is Mondamin ! 
Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin ! " 

Then he called to old Nokomis 
And Iagoo, the great boaster, 
Showed them where the maize was growing, 
Told them of his wondrous vision, 
Of his wrestling and his triumph, 
Of this new gift to the nations, 
Which should be their food for ever. 

And still later, when the Autumn 
Changed the long, green leaves to yellow, 
And the soft and juicy kernels 
Grew like wampum hard and yellow, 
Then the ripened ears he gathered, 
Stripped the withered husks from off them, 
As he once had stripped the wrestler, 
Gave the first Feast of Mondamin, 
And made known unto the people 
• This new gift of the Great Spirit. 



VI. 

hiawatha's friends. 

Two good friends had Hiawatha, 

Singled out from all the others, 

Bound to him in closest union, 

And to whom he gave the right hand 

Of his heart, in joy and sorrow; 

Chibiabos the musician, 

And the very strong man, Kwasind. 

Straight between them ran the pathway, 
Never grew the grass upon it; 
Singing birds, that utter falsehoods, / 
Story-tellers, mischief-makers, 
Found no eager ear to listen, 
Could not breed ill-will between them, 
For they kept each other's counsel, 
Spake with naked hearts together, 
Pondering much and much contriving 
How the tribes of men might prosper. 

Most beloved by Hiawatha 
Was the gentle Chibiabos, 
He the best of all musicians, 



hiawatha's friends. 377 

He the sweetest of all singers, 
Beautiful and childlike was he, 
Brave as man is, soft as woman, 
Pliant as a wand of willow, 
Stately as a deer with antlers. 

When he sang, the village listened; 
All the warriors gathered round him, 
All the women came to hear him ; 
Now he stirred their souls to passion, 
Now he melted them to pity. 

From the hollow reeds he fashioned 
Flutes so musical and mellow, 
That the brook, the Sebowisha, 
Ceased to murmur in the woodland, 
That the wood-birds ceased from singing, 
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree, 
And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 
Sat upright to look and listen. +> 

Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha, 
Pausing, said, " Chibiabos, 
Teach my waves to flow in music, 
Softly as your words in singing ! " 

Yes, the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
Envious, said, " Chibiabos, 
Teach me tones as wild and wayward, 
Teach me songs as full of frenzy ! " 

Yes, the robin, the Opechee, 
Joyous, said, " Chibiabos, 
Teach me tones as sweet and tender, 
Teach me songs as full of gladness ! " 

And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa, 
Sobbing, said, " Chibiabos, 
Teach me tones as melancholy, 
Teach me songs as full of sadness ! M 

All the many sounds of nature 
Borrowed sweetness from his singing; 
All the hearts of men were softened 
By the pathos of his music; 
For he sang of peace and freedom, 
Sang of beauty, love, and longing; 
Sang of death, and life undying 
In the Islands of the Blessed, 
In the kingdom of Ponemah, 
In the land of the Hereafter. 

Very dear to Hiawatha 
Was the gentle Chibiabos, 
He the best of all musicians, 
He the sweetest of all singers; 



378 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

For his gentleness he loved him, 
And the magic of his singing. 

Dear, too, unto Hiawatha 
Was the very strong man, Kwasind, 
He the strongest of all mortals, 
He the mightiest among many; 
For his very strength he loved him, 
For his strength allied to goodness. 

Idle in his youth was Kwasind, 
Very listless, dull, and dreamy, 
Never played with other children, 
Never fished and never hunted, 
Not like other children was he; 
But they saw that much he fasted, 
Much his Man it o entreated, 
Much besought his Guardian Spirit. 

" Lazy Kwasind ! " said his mother, 
" In my work you never help me ! 
In the Summer you are roaming 
Idly in the fields and forests; 
In the "Winter you are cowering 
O'er the firebrands in the wigwam ! 
In the coldest days of Winter 
I must break the ice for fishing; 
With my nets you never help me ! 
At the door my nets are hanging, 
Dripping, freezing with the water; 
Go and wring them, Yenadizze ! 
Go and dry them in the sunshine ! " 

Slowly, from the ashes, Kwasind 
Rose, but made no angry answer; 
From the lodge went forth in silence, 
Took the nets that hung together, 
Dripping, freezing at the doorway, 
Like a wisp of straw he wrung them, 
Like a wisp of straw he broke them, 
Could not wring them without breaking, 
Such the strength was in his fingers. 

" Lazy Kwasind ! " said his father, 
€t In the hunt you never help me; 
Every bow you touch is broken, 
Snapped asunder every arrow! 
Yet come with me to the forest, 
You shall bring the hunting homeward." 

Down a narrow pass they wandered, 
Where a brooklet led them onward, 
Where the trail of deer and bison 
Marked the soft mud on the margin, 
Till they found all further passage 




HIAWATHA'S FEIENDS. 379 

Shut against them, barred securely 
By the trunks of trees uprooted, 
Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise, 
And forbidding further passage. 

" We must go back," said the old man, 
"O'er these logs we cannot clamber; 
Not a woodchuck could get through them, 
Not a squirrel clamber o'er them ! " 
And straightway his pipe he lighted, 
And sat down to smoke and ponder. 
But before his pipe was finished, 
Lo ! the path was cleared before him; 
All the trunks had K wasind lifted, 
To the right hand, to the left hand, 
Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows, 
Hurled the cedars light as lances. 

" Lazy Kwasind ! " said the young men, 
As they sported in the meadow; 
" Why stand idly looking at us, 
Leaning on the rock behind you? 
Come and wrestle with the others, 
Let us pitch the quoit together ! " 

Lazy Kwasind made no answer, 
To their challenge made no answer, 
Only rose, and, slowly turning, 
Seized the huge rock in his fingers, 
Tore it from its deep foundation, 
Poised it in the air a moment, 
Pitched it sheer into the river, 
Sheer into the swift Pauwating, 
Where it still is seen in Summer. 

Once as down that foaming river, 
Down the rapids of Pauwating, 
Kwasind sailed with his companions, 
In the stream he saw a beaver, 
Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers, 
Struggling with the rushing currents. 
Rising, sinking in the water. 

Without speaking, without pausing, 
Kwasind leaped into the river, 
Plunged beneath the bubbling surface, 
Through the whirlpools chased the beaver, 
Followed him among the islands, 
Staid so long beneath the water, 
That his terrified companions 
Cried, " Alas ! good bye to Kwasind ! 
We shall never more see Kwasind ! " 
But he reappeared triumphant, 
And upon his shining shoulders 



380 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Brought the beaver, dead and dripping, 
Brought the King of all the Beavers. 
And these two, as I have told you, 
Were the friends of Hiawatha, 
Chibiabos, the musician, 
And the very strong man, Kwasind. 
Long they lived in peace together, 
Spake with naked hearts together, 
Pondering much and much contriving 
How the tribes of men might prosper. 



VII. 

hiawatha's sailing. 

iC Give me of your bark, Birch-Tree ! 
Of your yellow bark, Birch-Tree ! 
Growing by the rushing river, 
Tall and stately in the valley ! 
I a light canoe will build me, 
Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing, 
That shall float upon the river, 
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, 
Like a yellow water-lily ! 

" Lay aside your cloak, Birch-Tree ! 
Lay aside your white-skin wrapper, 
For the Summer-time is coming, 
And the sun is warm in heaven, 
And you need no white-skin wrapper ! " 

Thus aloud cried Hiawatha 
In the solitary forest, 
By the rushing Taquamenaw, 
When the birds were singing gaily, 
In the Moon of Leaves were singing, 
And the sun, from sleep awaking, 
Started up and said, " Behold me ! 
Geezis, the great Sun, behold me ! " 

And the tree with all its branches 
Rustled in the breeze of morning, 
Saying, with a sigh of patience, 
" Take my cloak, Hiawatha i " 

With his knife the tree he girdled; 
Just beneath its lowest branches, 
Just above the roots, he cut it, 
Till the sap came oozing outward; 
Down the trunk, from top to bottom, 
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder, 
With a wooden wedge he raised it, 
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken* 



I 

HIAWATHA'S SAILING. 381 

(i Give me of your boughs, Cedar ! 
Of your strong and pliant branches, 
My canoe to niake more steady, 
Make more strong and firm beneath me ! " 

Through the summit of the Cedar 
Went a sound, a cry of horror, 
"Went a murmur of resistance; 
But it whispered, bending downward, 
" Take my boughs, Hiawatha ! " 

Down he hewed the boughs of cedar, 
Shaped them straightway to a framework, 
Like two bows he formed and shaped them, 
Like two bended bows together. 

" Give me of your roots, Tamarack I 
Of your fibrous roots, Larch-Tree ! 
My canoe to bind together, 
So to bind the ends together 
That the water may not enter, 
That the river may not wet me ! " 

And the Larch, with all its fibres, 
Shivered in the air of morning, 
Touched his forehead with its tassels. 
Said, with one long sigh of sorrow, 
* Take them all, Hiawatha ! " 

From the earth he tore the fibres, 
Tore the tough roots of the Larch-Tree, 
Closely sewed the bark together, 
Bound it closely to the framework. 

" Give me of your balm, Fir-Tree 1 
Of your balsam and your resin, 
So to close the seams together 
That the water may not enter, 
That the river may not wet me ! " 

And the Fir-Tree, tall and sombre, 
Sobbed through all its robes of darkness, 
Battled like a shore with pebbles, 
Answered wailing, answered weeping, 
" Take my balm, Hiawatha ! " 

And he took the tears of balsam, 
Took the resin of the Fir-Tree, 
Smeared therewith each seam and fissure, 
Made each crevice safe from water. 

" Give me of your quills, Hedgehog ! 
All your quills, Kagh, the Hedgehog ! 
I will make a necklace of them, 
Make a girdle for my beauty, 
And two stars to deck her bosom ! " 

From a hollow tree the Hedgehog 
"With, his sleepy eyes looked at him, 



2 B 



382 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Shot his shining quills, like arrows, 
Saying, with a drowsy murmur, 
Through the tangle of his whiskers, 
" Take my quills, Hiawatha ! " 

From the ground the quills he gathered, 
All the little shining arrows, 
Stained them red and blue and yellow, 
"With the juice of roots and berries; 
Into his canoe he wrought them, 
Round its waist a shining girdle, 
Round its bows a gleaming necklace, 
On its breast two stars resplendent. 

Thus the Birch Canoe was builded 
In the valley, by the river, 
In the bosom of the forest; 
And the forest's life was in it, 
All its mystery and its magic, 
All the lightness of the birch-tree, 
All the toughness of the cedar, 
All the larch's supple sinews; 
And it floated on the river 
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, 
Like a yellow water-lily. 

Paddles none had Hiawatha, 
Paddles none he had or needed, 
For his thoughts as paddles served him, 
And his wishes served to guide him; 
Swift or slow at will he glided, 
Veered to right or left at pleasure. 
Then he called aloud to Kwasind, 
To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, 
Saying, " Help me clear this river 
Of its sunken logs and sand-bars." 

Straight into the river Kwasind 
Plunged as if he were an otter, 
Dived as if he were a, beaver, 
Stood up to his waist in water, 
To his arm-pits in the river, 
Swam and shouted in the river, 
Tugged at sunken logs and branches, 
With his hands he scooped the sand-bars, 
With his feet the ooze and tangle. 

And thus sailed my Hiawatha 
Down the rushing Taquamenaw, 
Sailed through all its bends and windings, 
Sailed through all its deeps and shallows, 
While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, 
Swam the deeps, the shallows waded. 

Up and down the river went they, 



HIAWATHA'S FISHING. 383 

In and out among its islands, 
Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar, 
Dragged the dead trees from its channel, 
Made its passage safe and certain, 
Made a pathway for the people, 
From its springs among the mountains. 
To the waters of Pauwating, 
To the bay of Taquamenaw. 



VIII. 

Hiawatha's fishing. 

Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, 
On the shining Eig-Sea- Water, 
With his fishing-line of cedar 
Of the twisted bark of cedar, 
Forth to catch the sturgeon Xahma 
Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes, 
In his birch canoe exulting 
All alone went Hiawatha. 

Through the clear, transparent water 
He could see the fishes swimming 
Far down in the depths below him; 
See the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 
Like a sunbeam in the water. 
See the Shawgashee, the craw fish, 
Like a spider on the bottom, 
On the white and sandy bottom. 

At the stern sat Hiawatha, 
With his fishing-line of cedar; 
In his plumes the breeze of morning 
Played as in the hemlock branches; 
On the bows, with tail erected, 
Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo; 
In his fur the breeze of morning 
Played as in the prairie grasses. 

On the white sand of the bottom 
Lay the Monster Mishe-Nahma, 
Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes; 
Through his gills he breathed the water. 
With his fins he fanned and winnowed, 
With his tail he swept the sand-floor. 

There he lay in all his armour; 
On each side a shield to guard him, 
Plates of bone upon his forehead, 
Down his sides and back and shoulders 
Plates of bone with spines projecting! 
Painted was he with his war-paints, 



334 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Stripes of yellow, red; and azure, 
Spots of brown and spots of sable; 
And he lay there on the bottom, 
Fanning with his fins of purple, 
As above him Hiawatha 
In his birch canoe came sailing, 
With his fishing-line of cedar. 

" Take my bait ! " cried Hiawatha, 
Down into the depths beneath him, 
" Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma 1 
Come up from below the water, 
Let us see which is the stronger t " 
And he dropped his line of cedar 
Through the clear, transparent water,, 
Waited vainly for an answer, 
Long sat waiting for an answer, 
And repeating loud and louder, 
" Take my bait, King of Fishes \" 

Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Fanning slowly in the water, 
Looking up at Hiawatha, 
Listening to his call and clamour, 
His unnecessary tumult, 
Till he wearied of the shouting; 
And he said to the Kenozha, 
To the pike, the Maskenozha, 
" Take the bait of this rude fellow, 
Break the line of Hiawatha ! " 

In his fingers Hiawatha 
Felt the loose line jerk and tighten; 
As he drew it in, it tugged so 
That the birch canoe stood endwise, 
Like a birch log in the water, 
With the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Perched and frisking on the summit. 

Full of scorn was Hiawatha 
When he saw the fish rise upward, 
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 
Coming nearer, nearer to him, 
And he shouted through the water, 
" Esa ! esa ! shame upon you ! 
You are but the pike Kenozha, 
You are not the fish I wanted, 
You are not the King of Fishes ! " 

Reeling downward to the bottom 
Sank the pike in great confusion, 
And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma, 
Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish. 
To the bream, with scales of crimson, 



HIAWATHA'S FISHING. 385 

* Take the bait of this great boaster, 
Break the line of Hiawatha ! " 

Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming, 
Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
Seized the line of Hiawatha, 
Swung with all his weight upon it, 
Made a whirlpool in the water, 
Whirled the birch canoe in circles, 
Round and round in gurgling eddies, 
Till the circles in the water 
Reached the far-off sandy beaches, 
Till the water-flags and rushes 
Nodded on the distant margins. 

But when Hiawatha saw him 
Slowly rising through the water, 
Lifting up his disc refulgent, 
Loud he shouted in derision, 
M Esa ! esa ! shame upon you ! 
You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish. 
You are not the fish I wanted, 
You are not the King of Fishes ! " 

Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,. 
Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Heard the shout of Hiawatha, 
Heard his challenge of defiance, 
The unnecessary tumult, 
Ringing far across the water. 

From the white sand of the bottom 
Up he rose with angry gesture, 
Quivering, in each nerve and fibre, 
Clashing all his plates of armour, 
Gleaming bright with all his war-paint; 
In his wrath he darted upward, 
Flashing leaped into the sunshine, 
Opened his great jaws and swallowed 
Both canoe and Hiawatha. 

Down into that darksome cavern 
Plunged the headlong Hiawatha, 
As a log on some black river 
Shoots and plunges down the rapids. 
Found himself in utter darkness, 
' Groped about in helpless wonder, 
Till he felt a great heart beating, 
Throbbing in that utter darkness. 

And he smote it in his anger, 
With his fist, the heart of Nahma, 
Felt the mighty King of Fishes 
, Shudder through each nerve and fibre, 



386 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Heard the water gurgle round him 
As he leaped and staggered through it, 
Sick at heart, and faint and weary. 

Crosswise then did Hiawatha 
Drag his birch canoe for safety, 
Lest from out the jaws of Nahma, 
In the turmoil and confusion, 
Forth he might be hurled and perish. 
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Frisked and chattered very gaily, 
Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha 
Till the labour was completed. 

Then said Hiawatha to him, 
ei my little friend, the squirrel, 
Bravely have you toiled to help me; 
Take the thanks of Hiawatha, 
And the name which now he gives you; 
For hereafter and for ever 
Boys shall call you Adjidaumo, 
Tail-in-air the boys shall call you I " 

And again the sturgeon, Nahma, s 
Gasped and quivered in the water, 
Then was still, and drifted landward 
Till he grated on the pebbles, 
Till the listening Hiawatha 
Heard him grate upon the margin, 
Felt him strand upon the pebbles, 
Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes, 
Lay there dead upon the margin. 

Then he heard a clang and napping". 
As of many wings assembling, 
Heard a screaming and confusion, 
As of birds of prey contending, 
Saw a gleam of light above him, 
Shining through the ribs of Nahma, 
Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls, 
Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering, 
Gazing at him through the openings 
Heard them saying to each other, 
" 'Tis our brother, Hiawatha ! " 

And he shouted from below them, 
Cried exulting from the caverns : 
" ye sea-gulls ! O my brothers ! 
I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma; 
Make the rifts a little larger, 
With your claws the openings widen, 
Set me free from this dark prison, 
And henceforward and for ever 
Hen shall speak of your achievements, 



HIAWATHA'S FISHING. 387 

Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, 
Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers ! '' 

And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls 
Toiled with beak and claws together, 
Made the rifts and openings wider 
In the mighty ribs of Nahnia, 
And from peril and from prison, 
From the body of the sturgeon, 
From the peril of the water, 
They released my Hiawatha. 

He was standing near his wigwam. 
On the margin of the water, 
And he called to old Nokomis, 
Called and beckoned to Nokomis, 
Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Lying lifeless on the pebbles, 
With the sea-gulls feeding on him. 

u I have slain the Mishe-Nahma, 
Slain the King of Fishes !" said he; 
"Look! the seagulls feed upon him, 
Yes, my friend Kayoshk, the sea-gulls: 
Drive them not' away, Nokomis, 
They have saved me from great peril 
In the body of the sturgeon; 
Wait' until their meal is ended, 
Till their craws are full with feasting, 
Till they homeward fly, at sunset, 
To their nests among the marshes; 
Then bring all your pots and kettles, 
And make oil for us in •Winter." 

And she waited till the sun set, 
Till the pallid moon, the night-sun, 
Rose above the tranquil water, 
Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls, 
From their banquet rose with clamour, 
And across the fiery sunset 
Winged their way to far-off islands, 
To their nests among the rushes. 

To his sleep went Hiawatha, 
And Nokomis to her labour, 
Toiling patient in the moonlight, 
Till the sun and moon changed places, 
Till the sky was red with sunrise 
And Kayoshk. the hungry sea-gulls, 
Came back from the reedy islands, 
Clamorous for their morning banquet. 

Three whoie days and nights alternate 
Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls 
Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma, 



388 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Till the waves washed through the rib-bones. 
Till the sea-gulls came no longer, 
And upon the sands lay nothing 
But the skeleton of Nahma. 



IX. 

HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHER. 

On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
Of the shining Big-Sea- Water, 
Stood Nokomis, the old woman, 
Pointing with her finger westward, 
O'er the water pointing westward, 
To the purple clouds of sunset. 

Fiercely the red sun descending 
Burned his way along the heavens, 
Set the sky on fire behind him, 
As war-parties, when retreating, 
Burn the prairies on their war-trail; 
And the moon, the Night-Sun, eastward, 
Suddenly starting from his ambush, 
Followed fast those bloody footprints, 
Followed in that fiery war-trail, 
With its glare upon his features. 

And Nokomis, the old woman, 
Pointing with her finger westward, 
Spake these words to Hiawatha: 
" Yonder dwells the great Pearl-Feather, 
Megissogwon, the Magician, 
Manito of Wealth and Wampum, 
Guarded by his fiery serpents, 
Guarded by the black pitch-water. 
You can see his fiery serpents, 
The Kenabeek, the great serpents, 
Coiling, playing in the water ; 
You can see the black pitch-water 
Stretching far away beyond them, 
To the purple clouds of sunset ! 

" He it was who slew my father, 
By his wicked wiles and cunning, 
When he from the moon descended, 
When he came on earth to seek me. 
He, the mightiest of Magicians, 
Sends the fever from the marshes, 
Sends the pestilential vapours, 
Sends the poisonous exhalations, 
Sends the white fog from the fen-landa, 
Sends disease and death among us I 



HIAWATHA -ANP THE PEARL-FEATHER. 389 

" Take your bow, Hiawatha, 
Take your arrows, jasper-headed, 
Take your war-club, Puggawaugun, 
And your mittens, Minjekahwun, 
And your birch canoe for sailing, 
And the oil of Mishe-Nahma, 
So to smear its sides, that swiftly 
You may pass the black pitch- water; 
Slay this merciless magician, 
Save the people from the fever 
That he breathes across the fen-lands, 
And avenge my father's murder ! " 

Straightway then my Hiawatha 
Armed himself with all his war-gear, 
Launched his birch-canoe for sailing; 
With his palm its sides he patted, 
Said with glee, " Cheemaun, my darling, 
my Birch Canoe ! leap forward, 
Where you see the fiery serpents, 
Where you see the black pitch -water!" 

Forward leaped Cheemaun exulting, 
And the noble Hiawatha 
Sang his war-song wild and wof ul, 
And above him the war-eagle, 
The Keneu, the great war-eagle, 
Master of all fowls with feathers, 
Screamed and hurtled through the heavens. 

Soon he reached the fiery serpents, 
The Kenabeek, the great serpents, 
Lying huge upon the water, 
Sparkling, rippling in the water, 
Lying coiled across the passage, 
With their blazing crests uplifted, 
Breathing fiery fogs and vapours, 
So that none could pass beyond them. 

But the fearless Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, and spake in this wise : 
" Let me pass my way, Kenabeek, 
Let me go upon my journey ! " 
And they answered, hissing fiercely, 
With their fiery breath made answer: 
"Back, go back! Shaugodaya! 
Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart ! " 

Then the angry Hiawatha 
Raised his mighty bow of ash-tree, 
Seized his arrows, jasper-headed, 
Shot them fast among the serpents, 
Every twanging of the bow-string 
Was a war-cry and a death-cry, 



390 XHE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Every whizzing of an arrow 
Was a death sod g of Kenabeek. 

Weltering in the bloody water, 
Dead lay all the fiery serpents, 
And among them Hiawatha 
Harmless sailed, and cried exulting : 
u Onward, Cheemaun, my darling! 
Onward to the black pitch-water ! " 

Then he took the oil of Nahma, 
And the bows and sides anointed, 
Smeared them well with oil, that swiftly 
He might pass the black pitch-water. 

All night long he sailed upon it, 
Sailed upon that sluggish water, 
Covered with its mould of ages, 
Black with rotting water-rushes, 
Bank with flags and leaves of lilies, 
Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal, 
Lighted by the shimmering moonlight, 
And by will-o'-the-wisps illumined, 
Fires by ghosts of dead men kindled, 
In their weary night-encampments. 

All the air was white with moonlight, 
All the water black with shadow, 
And around him the Suggema, 
The mosquitos, sang their war-song, 
And the fire-flies, Wah-wah-taysee, 
Waved their torches to mislead him ; 
And the bull-frog, the Dahinda, 
Thrust his head into the moonlight, 
Fixed his yellow eyes upon him, 
Sobbed and sank beneath the surface; 
And anon a thousand whistles, 
Answered over all the fen-lands, 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Far off on the reedy margin, 
Heralded the hero's coming. 

Westward thus fared Hiawatha, 
Toward the realm of Megissogwon, 
Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather. 
Till the level moon stared at him, 
In his face stared pale and haggard, 
Till the sun was hot behind him, 
Till it burned upon his shoulders, 
And before him on the upland 
He could see the Shining Wigwam 
Of the Manito of Wampum, 
Of the mightiest of Magicians. 

Then once more Cheemaun he patted, 



HIAWATHA AND THE PEAEL-FEATHER. 391 

To his birch canoe said, " Onward! n 

And it stirred in all its fibres, 

And with one great bound of triumph 

Leaped across the water-lilies, 

Leaped through tangled flags and rushes, 

And upon the beach beyond them 

Dry-shod, landed Hiawatha. 

Straight he took his bow of ash-tree, 
On the sand one end he rested, 
With his knee he pressed the middle, 
Stretched the faithful bow-string tighter, 
Took an arrow, jasper-headed, 
Shot it at the Shining Wigwam, 
Sent it singing as a herald, 
As a bearer of his message, 
Of his challeuge loud and lofty: 
" Come forth from your lodge, Pearl-Feather!^ 
Hiawatha waits your coming ! " 

Straightway from the Shining Wigwam 
Came the mighty Megissogwon, 
Tall of stature, broad of shoulder, 
Dark and terrible in aspect, 
Clad from head to foot in wampum, 
Armed with all his warlike weapons, 
Painted like the sky of morning, 
Streaked with crimson, blue and yellow, 
Crested with great eagle-feathers, 
Streaming upward, streaming outward. 

"Well I know you, Hiawatha!" 
Cried he in a voice of thunder, 
In a tone of loud derision. 
" Hasten back, Shaugodaya ! 
Hasten back among the women, 
Back to old Nokomis, Faint- Heart ! 
I will slay you as you stand there, 
As of old I slew her father ! " 

But my Hiawatha answered, 
Nothing daunted, fearing nothing : 
" Big words do not smite like war-clubs. 
Boastful breath is not a bow-string, 
Taunts are not so sharp as arrows 
Deeds are better things than words are. 
Actions mightier than boastings ! " 

Then began the greatest battle 
That the sun had ever looked on, 
That the war-birds ever witnessed. 
All a summer's day it lasted, 
From the sunrise to the sunset; 
For the shafts of Hiawatha. 



503 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Harmless bit the sliirt of wampum, 
Harmless fell the blows he dealt it 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Harmless fell the heavy war-club; 
It could dash the rocks asunder, 
But it could not break the meshea 
Of that magic shirt of wampum. 

Till at sunset Hiawatha, 
Leaning on his bow of ash-tree, 
Wounded, weary, and desponding, 
With his mighty war-club broken, 
With his mittens torn and tattered, 
And three useless arrows only, 
Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree, 
From whose branches trailed the mosses, 
And whose trunk was coated over 
With the Dead-man's Moccasin leather, 
With the fungus white and yellow. 

Suddenly from the bows above him 
Sang the Mama, the woodpecker: 
"Aim your arrows, Hiawatha, 
At the head of Megissogwon, 
Strike the tuft of hair upon it, 
At their roots the long black tresses; 
There alone can he be wounded ! " 

Winged with feathers, tipped with jasper. 
Swift flew Hiawatha's arrow, 
Just as Megissogwon, stooping, 
Raised a heavy stone to throw it. 
Full upon the crown it struck him, 
At the roots of his long tresses, 
And he reeled and staggered forward, 
Plunging like a wounded bison, 
Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison, 
When the snow is on the prairie. 

Swifter flew the second arrow, 
In the pathway of the other, 
Piercing deeper than the other, 
Wounding sorer than the other; 
And the knees of Megissogwon 
Shook like windy reeds beneath him, 
Bent and trembled like the rushes. 

But the third and latest arrow 
Swiftest flew and wounded sorest, 
And the mighty Megissogwon 
Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk, 
Saw the eyes of Death glare at him, 
Heai'd his voice call in the darkness: 
At the feet of Hiawatha 



1 



HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHER. 393 

Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather, 
Lay the mightiest of Magicians. 

Then the grateful Hiawatha 
Called the Mama, the woodpecker, 
From his perch among the branches 
Of the melancholy pine-tree, 
And, in honour of his service, 
Stained with blood the tuft of feathers 
On the little head of Mama; 
Even to this day he wears it, 
"Wears the tuft of crimson feathers 
As a symbol of his service. 

Then he stripped the shirt of wampum 
From the back of Megissogwon, 
As a trophy of the battle, 
As a signal of his conquest. 
On the shore he left the body, 
Half on land and half on water, 
In the sand his feet were buried, 
And his face was in the water. 
And above him wheeled and clamoured 
The Keneu, the great war-eagle, 
Sailing round in narrower circles, 
Hovering nearer, nearer, nearer. 

From the wigwam Hiawatha 
Bore the wealth of Megissogwon, 
All his wealth of skins and wampum, 
Furs of bison and of beaver, 
Furs of sable and of ermine, 
Wampum belts and strings and pouches, 
Quivers wrought with beads of wampum, 
Filled with arrows, silver-headed. 

Homeward then he sailed exulting, 
Homeward through the black pitch-water. 
Homeward through the weltering serpents, 
"With the trophies of the battle, 
"With a shout and song of triumph. 

On the shore stood old Nokomis, 
On the shore stood Chibiabos, 
And the very strong man, Kwasind, 
"Waiting for the hero's coming, 
Listening to his song of triumph. 
And the people of the village 
"Welcomed him with songs and dances., 
Made a joyous feast, and shouted: 
if Honour be to Hiawatha ! 
He has slain the great Pearl-Feather, 
Slain the mightiest of Magicians, 
Him, who sent the fiery fever. 



394 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Sent the white fog from the fen-lands, 
Sent disease and death among us ! " 

Ever dear to Hiawatha 
Was the memory of Mama ! 
And in token of his friendship, 
As a mark of his remembrance, 
He adorned and decked his pipe-stem 
With the crimson tuft of feathers, 
With the hlood-red crest of Mama. 
But the wealth of Megissogwon, 
All the trophies of the battle, 
He divided with his people, 
Shared it equally among theui. 



X. 

hiawatha's wooing-. 

14 As unto the bow the cord is, 

So unto the man is woman, 

Though she bends him, she obeys hira, 

Though she draws him, yet she follows, 

Useless each without the other ! " 

Thus the youthful Hiawatha 
Said within himself and pondered, 
Much perplexed by various feelings, 
Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, 
Dreaming still of Minnehaha, 
Of the lovely Laughing Water, 
In the land of the Dacotahs. 

" Wed a maiden of your people," 
Warning said the old Nokomis; 
€< Go not eastward, go not westward, 
For a stranger, whom we know not ! 
Like a fire upon the hearthstone 
Is a neighbour's homely daughter, 
Like the starlight or the moonlight 
Is the handsomest of strangers ! " 

Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, 
And my Hiawatha answered 
Only this : " Dear old Nokomis, 
Very pleasant is the firelight, 
But I like the starlight better, 
Better do I like the moonlight ! " 

Gravely then said old Nokomis: 
u Bring not here an idle maiden, 
Bring not here a useless woman, 
Hands unskilful, feet unwilling; 



HIAWATHA'S WOOING, 395 

Bring a wife with nimble fingers, 
Heart and hand that move together. 
Feet that run on willing errands ! " 

Smiling answered Hiawatha: 
u In the land of the Dacotahs 
Lives the Arrow-maker's daughter, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women. 
I will bring her to your wigwam, 
She shall run upon your errands, 
Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, 
Be the sunlight of my people ! " 

Still dissuading said Nokomis : 
" Bring not to my lodge a stranger 
From the land of the Dacotahs 1 
Very fierce are the Dacotahs, 
Often is there war between us, 
There are feuds yet unforgotten, 
Wounds that ache and still may open ] " 

Laughing answered Hiawatha : 
" For that reason, if no other, 
Would I wed the fair Dacotah, 
That our tribes might be united, 
That old feuds might be forgotten, 
And old wounds be healed for ever 1 *? 

Thus departed Hiawatha 
To the land of the Dacotahs, 
To the land of handsome women; 
Striding over moor and meadow, 
Through interminable forests, 
Through uninterrupted silence. v 

With his moccasins of magic, 
At each stride a mile he measured ; 
Yet the way seemed long before him, 
And his heart outran his footsteps ; 
And he journeyed without resting, 
Till he heard the cataract's laughter, 
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to him through the silence. 
u Pleasant is the sound ! " he murmured, 
Ci Pleasant is the voice that calls me ! " 

On the outskirts of the forest, 
'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, 
Herds of fallow deer were feeding, 
But they saw not Hiawatha; 
To his bow he whispered, " Fail not ! w 
To his arrow whispered, " Swerve not ! '*■ 
Sent it singing on its errand, 
To the red heart of the roebuck; 



396 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA, 

Threw the deer across his shoulder, 
And sped forward without pausing. 

At the doorway of his wigwam 
Sat the ancient Arrow-maker 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
Making arrow-heads of jasper, 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 
At his side, in all her beauty, 
Sat the lovely Minnehaha, 
Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, 
Plaiting mats of flags and rushes ; 
Of the past the old man's thoughts were, 
And the maiden's of the future. 

He was thinking, as he sat there, 
Of the days when with such arrows 
He had struck the deer and bison, 
On the Muskoday, the meadow; 
Shot the wild goose, flying southward. 
On the wing, the clamorous Wawa; 
Thinking of the great war-parties, 
How they came to buy his arrows, 
Could not fight without his arrows. 
Ah, no more such noble warriors 
Could be found on earth as they were ! 
Now the men were all like women, 
Only used their tongues for weapons ! 

She was thinking of a hunter, 
From another tribe and country, 
Young and tall and very handsome, 
Who one morning, in the Spring-time, 
Came to buy her father's arrows, 
Sat and rested in the wigwam, 
Lingered long about the doorway, 
Looking back as he departed. 
She had heard her father praise him, 
Praise his courage and his wisdom ; 
Would he come again for arrows 
To the Falls of Minnehaha? 
On the mat her hands lay idle, 
And her eyes were very dreamy. 

Through their thoughts they heard a footstep, 
Heard a rustling in the branches, 
And with glowing cheek and forehead, 
With the deer upon his shoulders, 
Suddenly from out the woodlands 
Hiawatha stood before them. 

Straight the ancient Arrow-maker 
Looked up gravely from his labour, 
Laid aside the unfinished arrow, 



HIAWATHA'S WOOING. 3D* 

Bade him enter at the doorway, 
Saying, as he rose to meet him, 
" Hiawatha, you are welcome ! " 

At the feet of Laughing Water 
Hiawatha laid his burden, 
Threw the red deer from his shoulders; 
Aoid the maiden looked up at him, 
Looked up from her mat of rushes, 
Said with gentle look and accent, 
"You are welcome, Hiawatha!" 

Very spacious was the wigwam, 
Mad3 of deer-skin dressed and whitened, 
With the Gods of the Dacotahs 
Drawn and painted on its curtains, 
And so tall the doorway, hardly 
Hiawatha stooped to enter, 
Hardly touched his eagle-feathers 
As he entered at the doorway. 

Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
From the ground fair Minnehaha, 
Laid aside her mat unfinished, 
Brought forth food and set before them, 
Wa,ter brought them from the brooklet, 
Gave them food in earthen vessels, 
Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, 
Listened while the guest was speaking, 
Listened while her father answered, 
But not once her lips she opened, 
Not a single word she uttered. 

Yes, as in a dream she listened 
To the words of Hiawatha, 
As he talked of old Nokomis, 
Who had nursed him in his childhood, 
As he told of his companions, 
Chibiabos, the musician, 
And the very strong man, Kwasind, 
And of happiness and plenty, 
In the land of the jib ways, 
In the pleasant land and peaceful 

" After many years of warfare, 
Many years of strife and bloodshed, 
There is peace between the jib ways 
And the tribe of the Dacotahs." 
Thus continued Hiawatha, 
And then added, speaking slowly, 
" That this peace may last for ever, 
And our hands be clasped more closely, 
And our hearts be more united, 
Give me as my wife this maiden, 

2C 



398 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Minehaha, Laughing Water, 
Loveliest of Dacotah women ! " 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Paused a moment ere he answered, 
Smoked a little while in silence, 
Looked at Hiawatha proudly, 
Fondly looked at Laughing Water, 
And made answer very gravely : 
"Yes, if Minnehaha wishes; 
Let your heart speak, Minnehaha ! " 

And the lovely Laughing Water 
Seemed more lovely as she stood there, 
Neither willing nor reluctant, 
As she went to Hiawatha, 
Softly took the seat beside him, 
While she said, and blushed to say it, 
" I will follow you, my husband ! " 

This was Hiawatha's wooing ! 
Thus it was he won the daughter 
Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs ! 

From the wigwam he departed, 
Leading with him Laughing Water; 
Hand in hand they went together, 
Through the woodland and the meadow, 
Left the old man standing lonely 
At the doorway of his wigwam, 
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to them from the distance, 
Crying to them from afar off, 
" Fare thee well, Minnehaha ! " 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Turned again unto his labour, 
Sat down by his sunny doorway, 
Murmuring to himself, and saying, 
" Thus it is our daughters leave us, 
Those we love, and those who love us I 
Just when they have learned to help us. 
When we are old and lean upon them, 
Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, 
With his flute of reeds, a stranger 
Wanders piping through the village, 
Beckons to the fairest maiden, 
And she follows where he leads her, 
Leaving all things for the stranger ! " 

Pleasant was the journey homeward, 
Through interminable forests, 
Over meadow, over mountain, 
Over river, hill, and hollow. 



HIAWATHA'S WOOING. 

Short it seemed to Hiawatha, 
Though they journeyed very slowly, 
Though his pace he checked and slackened 
To the steps of Laughing Water. 

Over wide and rushing rivers 
In his arms he bore the maiden; 
Light he thought her as a feather, 
As the plume upon his head-gear; 
Cleared the tangled pathway for her, 
Bent aside the swaying branches, 
Made at night a lodge of branches, 
And a bed with boughs of hemlock, 
And a fire before the doorway 
With the dry cones of the pine-tree. 

All the travelling winds went with them, 
O'er the meadow, through the forest; 
All the stars of night looked at them, 
Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber: 
From his ambush in the oak-tree 
Peeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo^, 
Watched with eager eyes the lovers; 
And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 
Scampered from the path before them, 
Peering, peeping from his burrow, 
Sat erect up-on his haunches, 
Watched with curious eyes the lovers. 

Pleasant was the journey homeward! 
All the birds sang loud and sweetly 
Songs of happiness and heart's-ease; 
Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
" Happy are you, Hiawatha, 
Having such a wife to love you ! " 
Sang the Robin, the Opechee, 
" Happy are you, Laughing Water. 
Having such a noble husband ! " 

From the sky the sun benignant 
Looked upon them through the branches, 
Saying to them, " my children, 
Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, 
Life is checkered shade and sunshine, 
Rule by love, Hiawatha ! " 

From the sky the moon looked at them. 
Filled the lodge with mystic splendours, 
Whispered to them, " my children, 
Day is restless, night is quiet, 
Man imperious, woman feeble; 
Half is mine, although I follow : 
Rule by patience, Laughing Water!" 

Thus it was they journeyed homeward; 



399 



400 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Thus it was that Hiawatha 

To the lodge of old Nokomis 

Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight, 

Brought the sunshine of his people, 

Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 

Handsomest of all the women 

In the land of the Dacotahs, 

In the land of handsome women. 



XI. 

hiawatha's wedding-feast. 

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
How the handsome Yenadizze 
Danced at Hiawatha's wedding; 
How the gentle Chibiabos, 
He the sweetest of musicians, 
Sang his songs of love and longing; 
How Iagoo, the great boaster, 
He the marvellous story teller, 
Told his tales of strange adventure, 
That the feast might be more joyous, 
That the time might pass more gaily, 
And the guests be more contented. 

Sumptuous was the feast Nokomis 
Made at Hiawatha's wedding : 
All the bowls were made of bass-wood, 
White and polished very smoothly, 
All the spoons of horn of bison, 
Black and polished very smoothly. 

She had sent through all the village 
Messengers with wands of willow, 
As a sign of invitation, 
As a token of the feasting; 
And the wedding guests assembled, 
Clad in all their richest raiment, 
Robes of fur and belts of wampum, 
Splendid with their paint and plumage, 
Beautiful with beads and tassels. 

First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma ? 
And the pike, the Maskenozha, 
Caught and cooked by old Nokoinis ; 
Then on pemican they feasted, 
Pemican and buffalo marrow, 
Haunch of deer and hump of bison, 
Yellow cakes of the Mondamin, 
And the wild rice of the river. 

But the gracious Hiawatha 



HIAWATHA'S WEDDING-FEAST. 401 

And the lovely Laughing Water, 
And the careful old Nokomis, 
Tasted not the food before them, 
Only waited on the others, 
Only served their guests in silence. 

And when all the guests had finished, 
Old Nokomis, brisk and busy, 
From an ample pouch of otter, 
Filled the red stone pipes for smoking 
With tobacco from the South-land, 
Mixed with bark of the red willow, 
And with herbs and leaves of fragrance. 

Then she said, " Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Dance for us your merry dances, 
Dance the Beggar's Dance to please us, 
That the feast may be more joyous, 
That the time may pass more gaily, 
And our guests be more contented ! " 

Then the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
He the idle Yenadizze, 
He the merry mischief-maker, 
Whom the people called the Storm-Fool, 
Rose among the guests assembled. 

Skilled was he in sports and pastimes, 
In the merry dance of snow-shoes, 
In the play of quoits and ball-play; 
Skilled was he in games of hazard, 
In all games of skill and hazard, 
Pugasaing, the Bowl and Counters, 
Kuntassoo, the Game of Plum-stones. 

Though the warriors called him Faint-Heart, 
Called him coward, Shaugodaya, 
Idler, gambler, Yenadizze, 
Little heeded he their jesting, 
Little cared he for their insults, 
For the women and the maidens 
Loved the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

He was dressed in shirt of doe-skin, 
White and soft, and fringed with ermine, 
All inwrought with beads of wampum; 
He was dressed in deer-skin leggings, 
Fringed with hedgehog quills and ermine, 
And in moccasins of buckskin, 
Thick with quills and beads embroidered. 
On his head wercplumes of swan's down, 
On his heels were tails of foxes, 
In one hand a fan of feathers, 
And a pipe was in the other. 

Barred with streaks of red and yellow, 



402 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Streaks of blue and bright vermilion, 
Shone the face of Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
From his forehead fell his tresses, 
Smooth, and parted like a woman's, 
Shining bright with oil, and plaited, 
Hung with braids of scented grasses, 
As among the guests assembled, 
To the sound of flutes and singing, . 
To the sound of drums and voices, 
Bose the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
And began his mystic dances. 

First he danced a solemn measure, 
Very slow in step and gesture, 
In and out among the pine-trees, 
Through the shadows and the sunshine, 
Treading softly like a panther. 
Then more swiftly and still swifter, 
Whirling, spinning round in circles, 
Leaping o'er the guests assembled, 
Eddying round and round the wigwam, 
Till the leaves went whirling with him, 
Till the dust and wind together 
Swept in eddies round about him. 

Then along the sandy margin 
Of the lake, the Big-Sea- Water, 
On he sped with frenzied gestures, 
Stamped upon the sand, and tossed it 
Wildly in the air around him; 
Till the wind became a whirlwind, 
Till the sand was blown and sifted 
Like great snowdrifts o'er the landscape, 
Heaping all the shores with Sand Dunes, 
Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo ! 

Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Danced his Beggar's Dance to please thein^ 
And, returning, sat down laughing 
There among the guests assembled, 
Sat and fanned himself serenely 
With his fan of turkey feathers. 

Then they said to Chibiabos, 
To the friend of Hiawatha, 
To the sweetest of all singers, 
To the best of all musicians, 
" Sing to us, Chibiabos ! 
Songs of love and songs of longing, 
That the feast may be more joyous, 
That the time may pass more gaily. 
And our guests be more contented I " 

And the gentle Chibiabos 



HIAWATHA'S WEDDING-FEAST. 403 

Sang in accents sweet and tender, 
Sang in tones of deep emotion, 
Songs of love and songs of longing; 
Looking still at Hiawatha, 
Looking at fair Laughing Water, 
Sang he softly, sang in this wise : 

" Onaway ! Awake, beloved! 
Thou the wild-flower of the forest ! 
Thou the wild-bird of the prairie ! 
Thou with eyes so soft and fawn-like ! 

" If thou only lookest at me, 
I am happy, I am happy, 
As the lilies of the prairie, 
When they feel the dew upon them ! 

" Sweet thy breath is as the fragrance 
Of the wild-flowers in the morning, 
As their fragrance is at evening, 
In the Moon when leaves are falling. 

"Does not all the blood within me 
Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, 
As the springs to meet the sunshine, 
In the moon when nights are brightest? 

" Onaway ! my heart sings to thee, 
Sings with joy when thou art near me, 
As the sighing, singing branches 
In the pleasant Moon of Strawberries! 

M When thou art not pleased, beloved, 
Then my heart is sad and darkened, 
As the shining river darkens 
When the clouds drop shadows on it ! 

" When thou smilest, my beloved, 
Then my troubled heart is brightened, 
As in sunshine gleam the ripples - 
That the cold wind makes in rivers. 

" Smiles the earth, and smile the waters, 
Smile the cloudless skies above us, 
But I lose the way of smiling 
When thou art no longer near me ! 

" I myself, myself! behold me ! 
Blood of my beating heart, behold me ! 
O awake, awake, beloved! 
Onaway ! awake, beloved ! " 

Thus the gentle Chibiabos 
Sang his song of love and longing. 
And Iagoo, the great boaster, 
He the marvellous story-teller, 
He the friend of old Nokomis, 
Jealous of the sweet musician, 
Jealous of the applause they gave him, 



404 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA, 

Saw in all the eyes around him, 
Saw in all their looks and gestures^ 
That the wedding guests assembled 
Longed to hear his pleasant stories,, 
His immeasurable falsehoods. 

Yery boastful was Iagoo; 
Never heard he an adventure 
But himself had met a greater; 
Never any deed of daring 
But himself had done a bolder y 
Never any marvellous story 
But himself could tell a stranger. 

"Would you listen to his boasting, 
Would you only give him credence, 
No one ever shot an arrow 
Half so far and high as he had; 
Ever caught so many fishes, 
Ever killed so many reindeer 
Ever trapped so many beaver ! 

None could run so fast as he couM^ 
None could dive so deep as he could, 
None could swim as far as he could; 
None had made so many journeys > 
None had seen so many wonders, 
As this wonderful Iagoo, 
As this marvellous story-teller ! 

Thus his name became a by-word 
And a jest among the people; 
And whene'er a boastful hunter 
Praised his own address too highly, 
Or a warrior, home returning, 
Talked too much of his achievements, 
All his hearers cried, " Iagoo ! 
Here 's Iagoo come among us ! " 

He it was who carved the cradle 
Of the little Hiawatha, 
Carved its framework out of linden, 
Bound it strong with reindeer sinews j 
He it was who taught him later 
How to make his bows and arrows, 
How to make the bows of ash-tree^ 
And the arrows of the oak-tree. 
So among the guests assembled 
At my Hiawatha's wedding 
Sat Iagoo, old and ugly, 
Sat the marvellous story-teller. 

And they said, " good Iagoo, 
Tell us now a tale of wonder, 
Tell ur> of some strange adventure, 




THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR. 405 

That the feast may be more joyous, 
That the time may pass more gaily, 
And our guests be more contented ! " 

And Iagoo answered straightway, 
" You shall hear a tale of wonder, 
You shall hear the strange adventures 
Of Osseo, the Magician, 
From the Evening Star descended." 



XII 

THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR. 

Can it be the sun descending 
O'er the level plain of water? 
Or the red swan floating, flying, 
Wounded by the magic arrow, 
Staining all the waves with crimson, 
"With the crimson of its life-blood, 
FilMng all the air with splendour, 
"With the splendour of its plumage? 

Yes, it is the sun descending, 
Sinking down into the water; 
All the sky is stained with purple, 
All the water flushed with crimson 1 
No; it is the Red Swan floating, 
Diving down beneath the water; 
To the sky its wings are lifted, 
With its blood the waves are reddened ! 

Over it the Star of Evening 
Melts and trembles through the purple, 
Hangs suspended in the twilight. 
No ; it is a bead of wampum 
On the robes of the Great Spirit, 
As he passes through the twilight, 
Walks in silence through the heavens ! 

This with joy beheld Iagoo, 
And he said in haste : " Behold it ! 
See the sacred Star of Evening ! 
You shall hear a tale of wonder, 
Hear the story of Osseo, 
Son of the Evening Star Osseo. 

" Once, in days no more remembered, 
Ages nearer the beginning, 
When the heavens were closer to us, 
And the Gods were more familiar, 
' In the North-land lived a hunter, 
With ten young and comely daughters, 
Tall and lithe as wands of willow; 



406 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Only Oweenee, the youngest, 
She the wilful and the wayward, 
She the silent, dreamy maiden, 
Was the fairest of the sisters. 

" All these women married warriors, 
Married brave and haughty husbands ; 
Only Oweenee, the youngest, 
Laughed and flouted all her lovers, 
All her young and handsome suitors, 
And then married old Osseo, 
Old Osseo, poor and ugly, 
Broken with age and weak with coughing, 
Always coughing like a squirrel. 

" Ah, but beautiful within him 
Was the spirit of Osseo, 
From the Evening Star descended, 
Star of Evening, Star of Woman, 
Star of tenderness and passion ! 
All its fire was in his bosom, 
All its beauty in his spirit, 
All its mystery in his being, 
All its splendour in his language ! 

" And her lovers, the rejected, 
Handsome men with belts of wampum, 
Handsome men with paint and feathers, 
Pointed at her in derision, 
Followed her with jest and laughter. 
But she said : ' I care not for you, 
Care not for your belts of wampum, 
Care not for your paint and feathers, 
Care not for your jests and laughter: 
I am happy with Osseo ! ' 

" Once to some great feast invited, 
Through the damp and dusk of evening 
Walked together the ten sisters, 
Walked together with their husbands ; 
Slowly followed old Osseo, 
With fair Oweenee beside him; 
All the others chatted gaily, 
These two only walked in silence. 

" At the western sky Osseo 
Gazed intent, as if imploring, 
Often stopped and gazed imploring 
At the trembling Star of Evening, 
At the tender Star of Woman; 
And they heard him murmur softly- 
* Ah, showain nemes7iin, Nosa! 
Pity, pity me, my father ! * 

" ' Listen ! ' said the eldest sister, 



THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR. 407 

' He is praying to his father ! 
What a pity that the old man 
Does not stumble in the pathway, 
Does not break his neck by falling ! ' 
And they laughed till all the forest 
Rang with their unseemly laughter. 

" On their pathway through the woodlands 
Lay an oak, by storms uprooted, 
Lay the great trunk of an oak-tree 
Buried half in leaves and mosses, 
Mouldering, crumbling, huge and hollow. 
And Osseo, when he saw it, 
Gave a shout, a cry of anguish, 
Leaped into its yawning cavern, 
At one end went in an old man, 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly; 
From the other came a young man, 
Tall and straight and strong and handsome. 

" Thus Osseo was transfigured, 
Thus restored to youth and beauty; 
But, alas for good Osseo, 
And for Oweenee, the faithful ! 
Strangely, too, was she transfigured. 
Changed into a weak old woman, 
With a staff she tottered onward, 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly ! 
And the sisters and their husbands 
Laughed until the echoing forest 
Rang with their unseemly laughter. 

" But Osseo turned not from her, 
Walked with slower step beside her, 
Took her hand, as brown and withered 
As an oak-leaf is in Winter, 
Called her sweetheart, Nenemoosha, 
Soothed her with soft words of kindness,, 
Till they reached the lodge of feasting, 
Till they sat down in the wigwam, 
Sacred to the Star of Evening, 
To the tender Star of Woman. 

" Wrapt in visions, lost in dreaming, 
At the banquet sat Osseo; 
All were merry, all were happy, 
All were joyous but Osseo. 
Neither food nor drink he tasted, 
Neither did he speak nor listen, 
But as one bewildered sat he, 
Looking dreamily and sadly, 
First at Oweenee, then upward 
At the gleaming sky above them. 



408 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

" Then a voice was heard, a whisper, 
Coming from the starry distance, 
Coming from the empty vastness, 
Low, and musical, and tender; 
And the voice said : ' Osseo ! 
O my son, my best beloved ! 
Broken are the spells that bound you, 
All the charms of the magicians. 
All the magic powers of evil; 
Come to me ; ascend, Osseo ! 

" ' Taste the food that stands before you: 
It is blessed and enchanted, 
It has magic virtues in it, 
It will change you to a spirit. 
All your bowls and all your kettles 
Shall be wood and clay no longer; 
But the bowls be changed to wampum, 
And the kettles shall be silver; 
They shall shine like shells of scarlet, 
Like the fire shall gleam and glimmer. 

" i And the women shall no longer 
Bear the dreary doom of labour, 
But be changed to birds, and glisten 
With the beauty of the starlight, 
Painted with the dusky splendours 
Of the skies and clouds of evening ! ' 

" What Osseo heard as whispers, 
What as words he comprehended, 
Was but music to the others, 
Music as of birds afar off, 
Of the whippoorwill afar off, 
Of the lonely Wawonaissa 
Singing in the darksome forest. 

" Then the lodge began to tremble, 
Straight began to shake and tremble, 
And they felt it rising, rising, 
Slowly through the air ascending, 
From the darkness of the tree-tops 
Forth into the dewy starlight, 
Till it passed the topmost branches; 
And behold ! the wooden dishes 
All were changed to shells of scarlet ! 
And behold ! the earthen kettles 
All were changed to bowls of silver ! 
And the roof -poles of the wigwam 
Were as glittering rods of silver, 
And the roof of bark upon them 
As the shining shards of beetles. 

" Then Osseo gazed around him, 



THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR 409 

And he saw the nine fair sisters, 
Ail the sisters and their husbands, 
Changed to birds of various plumage. 
Some were jays and some were magpies, 
Others thrushes, others blackbirds; 
And they hopped, and sang, and twittered, 
Perked and fluttered all their feathers, 
Strutted in their shining plumage, 
And their tails like fans unfolded. 

" Only Oweenee, the youngest, 
Was not changed, but sat in silence, 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly, 
Looking sadly at the others; 
Till Osseo, gazing upward, 
Gave another cry of anguish, 
Such a cry as he had uttered 
By the oak-tree in the forest. 

" Then returned her youth and beauty, 
And her soiled and tattered garments 
Were transformed to robes of ermine, 
And her staff became a feather, 
Yes, a shining silver feather ! 

" And again the wigwam trembled, 
Swayed and rushed through airy currents, 
Through transparent cloud and vapour, 
And amid celestial splendours 
On the Evening Star alighted, 
As a snow-flake falls on snow-flake, 
As a leaf drops on a river, 
As the thistle-down on water. 

" Forth with cheerful words of welcome 
Came the father of Osseo, 
He with radiant locks of silver, 
He with eyes serene and tender. 
And he said : ' My son, Osseo, 
Hang the cage of birds you bring there, 
Hang the cage with rods of silver, 
And the birds with glistening feathers, 
At the doorway of my wigwam.' 

" At the door he hung the bird-cage, 
And they entered in and gladly 
Listened to Osseo's father, 
Kuler of the Star of Evening, 
As he said : ' my Osseo ! 
I have had compassion on you, 
Given you back your youth and beauty, 
Into birds of various plumage 
Changed your sisters and their husbands; 
Changed them thus because they mocked you, 



410 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

In the figure of the old man, 

In that aspect sad and wrinkled, 

Could not see your heart of passion, 

Could not see your youth immortal; 

Only Oweenee, the faithful, 

Saw your naked heart and loved you. 

" ' In the lodge that glimmers yonder 
In the little star that twinkles 
Through the vapours, on the left hand, 
Lives the envious Evil Spirit, 
The Wabeno, the magician, 
"Who transformed you to an old man. 
Take heed lest his beams fall on you, 
For the rays he darts around him 
Are the power of his enchantment, 
Are the arrows that he uses/ 

" Many years, in peace and quiet, 
On the peaceful Star of Evening 
Dwelt Osseo with his father; 
• Many years, in song and nutter, 
At the doorway of the wigwam, 
Hung the cage with rods of silver, 
And fair Oweenee, the faithful, 
Bore a son unto Osseo, 
With the beauty of his mother, 
With the courage of his father. 

" And the boy grew up and prospered, 
And Osseo, to delight him, 
Made him little bows and arrows, 
Opened the great cage of silver, 
And let loose his aunts and uncles, 
All those birds with glossy feathers, 
For his little son to shoot at. 

<l Round and round they wheeled and darted, 
Filled the Evening Star with music, 
With their songs of joy and freedom; 
Filled the Evening Star with splendour, 
With the fluttering of their plumage; 
Till the boy, the little hunter, 
Bent his bow and shot an arrow, 
Shot a swift and fatal arrow, 
And a bird, with shining feathers, 
At his feet fell wounded sorely. 

" But, wondrous transformation J 
'Twas no bird he saw before him, 
'Twas a beautiful young woman, 
With the arrow in her bosom ! 

" When her blood fell on the planet, 
On the sacred Star of Evening, 



THE SON OF THE EVENING STAE. 411 

Broken was the spell of magic, 
Powerless was the strange enchantment, 
And the youth, the fearless bowman, 
Suddenly felt himself descending, 
Held by unseen hands, but sinking 
Downward through the empty spaces, 
Downward through the clouds and vapours, 
Till he rested on an island, 
On an island, green and grassy, 
Yonder in the Big-Sea- Water. 

" After him he saw descending 
All the birds with shining feathers, 
Fluttering, falling, wafted downward, 
Like the painted leaves of Autumn; 
And the lodge with poles of silver, 
With its roof like wings of beetles, 
Like the shining shards of beetles, 
By the winds of heaven uplifted, 
Slowly sank upon the island, 
Bringing back the good Osseo, 
Bringing Oweenee, the faithful. 

" Then the birds, again transfigured, 
Reassumed the shape of mortals, 
Took their shape, but not their stature ; 
They remained as Little People, 
Like the pigmies, the Puk-Wudjies, 
And on pleasant nights of Summer, 
When the Evening Star was shining, 
Hand in hand they danced together 
On the island's craggy headlands, 
On the sand-beach low and level. 

" Still their glittering lodge is seen there, 
On the tranquil Summer evenings, 
And upon the shore the fisher 
Sometimes hears their happy voices, 
Sees them dancing in the starlight ! " 

When the story was completed, 
When the wondrous tale was ended, 
Looking round upon his listeners, 
Solemnly Iagoo added : 
" There are great men, I have known such, 
Whom their people understand not, 
Whom they even make a jest of, 
Scoff and jeer at in derision. 
From the story of Osseo 
Let us learn the fate of jesters ! " 

All the wedding guests delighted 
Listened to the marvellous story, 
Listened laughing and applauding, 



412 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

And they whispered to each other : 
"Does he mean himself, I wonder? 
And are we the aunts and uncles?" 

Then again sang Chibiabos, 
Sang a song of love and longing, 
In those accents sweet and tender, 
In those tones of pensive sadness, 
Sang a maiden's lamentation 
For her lover, her Algonquin. 

" "When I think of my beloved, 
Ah me ! think of my beloved, 
When my heart is thinking of him, 
my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" Ah me ! when I parted from him, 
Round my neck he hung the wampum, 
As a pledge, the snow-white wampum, 
my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" I will go with you, he whispered, 
Ah me ! to your native country; 
Let me go with you, he whispered, 
my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" Far away, away, I answered, 
Very far away, I answered, 
Ah me ! is my native country, 
my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" When I looked back to behold him, 
Where we parted to behold him, 
After me he still was gazing, 
my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" By the tree he still was standing, 
By the fallen tree was standing, 
That had dropped into the water, 
my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" When I think of my beloved, 
Ah me ! think of my beloved, r 
When my heart is thinking of him, 
my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! " 

Such was Hiawatha's Wedding, 
Such the dance of Pau-Puk-Keewis,. 
Such the story of Iagoo, 
Such the songs of Chibiabos ; 
Thus the wedding banquet ended, 
And the wedding guests departed, 
Leaving Hiawatha happy 
With the night and Minnehaha. 



BLESSING THE CORN-FIELDS. 4 1 3 

XIII. 

BLESSING THE CORN-FIELDS. 

Sixg, Song of Hiawatha, 

Of the happy days that followed, 

In the land of the jib ways, 

In the pleasant land and peaceful ! 

Sing the mysteries of Mondamin, 

Sing the Blessing of the Corn-fields ! 

Buried was the bloody hatchet, 
Buried was the dreadful war-club, 
Buried were all warlike weapons, 
And the war-cry was forgotten. 
There was peace among the nations; 
Unmolested roved the hunters, 
Built the birch canoe for sailing, 
Caught the fish in lake and river, 
Shot the deer and trapped the beaver: 
Unmolested worked the women, 
Made their sugar from the maple, 
Gathered wild rice in the meadows, 
Dressed the skins of deer and beaver. 

All around the happy village 
Stood the maize-fields, green and shining, 
Waved the green plumes of Mondamin, 
Waved his soft and sunny tresses, 
Filling all the land with plenty. 
'Twas the women who in Spring-time 
Planted the broad fields and fruitful, - 
Buried in the earth Mondamin; 
'Twas the women who in Autumn 
Stripped the yellow husks of harvest, 
Stripped the garments from Mondamin. 
Even as Hiawatha taught them. 

Once, when all the maize was planted, 
Hiawatha, wise and thoughtful, 
Spake and said to Minnehaha, 
To his wife the Laughing Water: 
" You shall bless to-night the corn-fields, 
Draw a magic circle round them, 
To protect them from destruction, 
Blast of mildew, blight of insect, 
Wagemin, the thief of corn-fields, 
Paimosaid, who steals the maize- ear ! 

" In the night, when all is silence, 
In the night, when all is darkness, 
When the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 
Shuts the doors of all the wigwams, 

2D 



414 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

So that not an ear can hear you, 
So that not an eye can see you, 
Rise up from your bed in silence, 
Lay aside your garments wholly, 
Walk around the fields you planted, 
Bound the borders of the corn-fields, 
Covered by your tresses only, 
Robed with darkness as a garment. 

" Thus the fields shall be more fruitful, 
And the passing of your footsteps 
Draw a magic circle round them, 
So that neither blight nor mildew, 
Neither burrowing worm nor insect, 
Shall pass o'er the magic circle; 
Not the dragon-fly, Kwo-ne-she, 
Nor the spider, Subbekashe, 
Nor the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena, 
Nor the mighty caterpillar, 
Way-muk-kwana, with the bearskin, 
King of all the caterpillars ! " 

On the tree-tops near the corn-fields 
Sat the hungry crows and ravens, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
With his band of black marauders, 
And they laughed at Hiawatha, 
Till the tree-tops shook with laughter, 
With their melancholy laughter 
At the words of Hiawatha. 
" Hear him ! " said they ; " hear the Wise Man J 
Hear the plots of Hiawatha ! " 

When the noiseless night descended 
Broad and dark o'er field and forest, 
When the mournful Wawonaissa, 
Sorrowing sang among the hemlocks, 
And the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 
Shut the doors of all the wigwams, 
From her bed rose Laughing Water, 
Laid aside her garments wholly, 
And with darkness clothed and guarded, 
Unashamed and unaffrighted, 
Walked securely round the corn-fields, 
Drew the sacred magic circle 
Of her footprints round the corn-fields. 

No one but the Midnight only 
Saw her beauty in the darkness, 
No one but the Wawonaissa 
Heard the panting of her bosom; 
Guskewau, the darkness, wrapped her 
Closely in his sacred mantle, 



BLESSING THE CORN-FIELDS. 



415 



So that none might see her beauty, 

So that none might "boast, <c I saw her ! " 

On the morrow, as the day dawned, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Gathered all his black marauders, 
Crows and blackbirds, jays and ravens, 
Clamorous on the dusky tree-tops. 
And descended, fast and fearless, 
On the fields of Hiawatha, 
On the grave of the Mondamin. 

" We will drag Mondamin," said they, 
" From the grave where he is buried, 
Spite of all the magic circles 
Laughing Water draws around it, 
Spite of all the sacred footprints 
Minnehaha stamps upon it ! " 

But the wary Hiawatha, 
Ever thoughtful, careful, watchful, 
Had o'erheard the scornful laughter 
When they mocked him from the tree-tops. 
" Kaw ! " he said, " my friends the ravens : 
Kahgahgee, my King of Ravens ! 
I will teach you all a lesson 
That shall not be soon forgotten ! " 

He had risen before the daybreak, 
He had spread o'er all the corn-fields 
Snares to catch the black marauders, 
And was lying now in ambush 
In the neighbouring grove of pine-trees, 
' Waiting for the crows and blackbirds, 
Waiting for the jays and ravens. 

Soon they came with caw and clamour, 
Rush of wings and cry of voices, 
To their work of devastation, 
Settling down upon the corn-fields, 
Delving deep w 7 ith beak and talon 
For the body of Mondamin. 
And w 7 ith all their craft and cunning, 
All their skill in wiles of w r arfare, 
They perceived no danger near them, 
Till their claws became entangled, 
Till they found themselves imprisoned 
In the snares of Hiawatha. 

From his place of ambush came he, 
Striding terrible among them, 
And so awful was his aspect, 
That the bravest quailed with terror. 
Without mercy he destroyed them 
Right and left, by tens and twenties, 



416 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

And their wretched, lifeless bodies 
Hung aloft on poles for scarecrows 
Round the consecrated corn-fields, 
As a signal of his vengeance, 
As a warning to marauders. 

Only Kahgahgee, the leader, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
He alone was spared among them 
As a hostage for his people. 
With his prisoner-string he bound him, 
Led him captive to his wigwam, 
Tied him fast with cords of elm-bark 
To the ridge-pole of his wigwam. 

" Kahgahgee, my raven ! " said he, 
" You the leader of the robbers, 
You the plotter of this mischief, 
The contriver of this outrage, 
I will keep you, I will hold you, 
As a hostage for your people, 
As a pledge of good behaviour ! " 

And he left him, grim and sulky, 
Sitting in the morning sunshine 
On the summit of the wigwam, 
Croaking fiercely his displeasure, 
Flapping his great sable pinions, 
Vainly struggling for his freedom, 
Vainly calling on his people ! 

Summer passed, and Shawondasee 
Breathed his sighs o'er all the landscape, 
From the South-land sent his ardours, 
Wafted kisses warm and tender; 
And the maize-field grew and ripened, 
Till it stood in all the splendour 
Of its garments green and yellow, 
Of its tassels and its plumage, 
And the maize-ears full and shining 
Gleamed from bursting sheaths of verdure 

Then Nokomis, the old woman, 
Spake, and said to Minnehaha: 
" 'Tis the Moon when leaves are falling; 
All the wild-rice has been gathered, 
And the maize is ripe and ready; 
Let us gather in the harvest, 
Let us wrestle with Mondamin, 
Strip him of his plumes and tassels, 
Of his garments green and yellow ! n 

And the merry Laughing Water 
Went rejoicing from the wigwam, 
With Nokomis, o]d and wrinkled, 



BLESSDTG THE CORN-FIELDS. 417 

And they called the women round them. 
Called the young men and the maidens, 
To the harvest of the corn-fields, 
To the husking of the maize-ear. 

On the border of the forest, 
Underneath the fragrant pine-trees, . 
Sat the old men and the warriors 
Smoking in the pleasant shadow. 
In uninterrupted silence 
Looked they at the gamesome labour 
Of the young men and the women; 
Listened to their noisy talking, 
To their laughter and their singing, 
Heard them chattering like the magpies, 
Heard them laughing like the blue- jays, 
Heard them singing like the robins. 

And whene'er some lucky maiden 
Found a red ear in the husking, 
Found a maize-ear red as blood is, 
"Nushka!" cried they all together, 
"Nushka! you sha 7 i have a sweetheart, 
You shall have a handsome husband ! " 
" Ugh ! " the old men all responded, 
From their seats beneath the pine-trees. 

And whene'er a youth or maiden 
Found a crooked ear in husking, 
Found a maize-ear in the husking 
Blighted, mildewed, or misshapen, 
Then they laughed and sang together, 
Crept and limped about the corn-fields, 
Mimicked in their gait and gestures 
Some old man, bent almost double, 
Singing singly or together : 
u Wagemin, the thief of corn-fields ! 
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear ! " 

Till the corn-fields rang with laughter, 
Till from Hiawatha's wigwam 
Kahgahgee, the King of Havens, 
Screamed and quivered in his anger, 
And from all the neighbouring tree-tops 
Cawed and croaked the black marauders. 
u Ugh ! " the old men all responded, 
From their seats beneath the pine-trees 



418 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

XIY. 

PICTURE- WRITING. 

In those days said Hiawatha, 

" Lo ! how all things fade and perish I 

From the memory of the old men 

Pass away the great traditions, 

The achievements of the warriors, 

The adventures of the hunters, 

All the wisdom of the Medas, 

All the craft of the Wabenos, 

All the marvellous dreams and visiona 

Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets ! 

" Great men die and are forgotten, 
Wise men speak ; their words of wisdom 
Perish in the ears that hear them, 
Do not reach the generations 
That, as yet unborn, are waiting 
In the great, mysterious darkness 
Of the speechless days that shall be f 

" On the grave-posts of our fathers 
Are no signs, no figures painted; 
Who are in those graves we know not, 
Only know they are our fathers. 
Of what kith they are and kindred, 
From what old, ancestral Totem, 
Be it Eagle, Bear, or Beaver, 
They descended, this we know not, 
Only know they are our fathers. 

" Face to face we speak together, 
But we cannot speak when absent, 
Cannot send our voices from us 
To the friends that dwell afar off; 
Cannot send a secret message, 
But the bearer learns our secret, 
May pervert it, may betray it, 
May reveal it unto others." 

Thus said Hiawatha, walking 
In the solitary forest, 
Pondering, musing in the forest, 
On the welfare of his people. 

From his pouch he took his colours, 
Took his paints of different colours, 
On the smooth bark of a birch-tree 
Painted many shapes and figures, 
Wonderful and mystic figures, 



FICTTTRE-WTOTIITG. ' 419 

And each figure had a meaning, 
Each some word or thought suggested. 

Gitche Manito the Mighty, 
He, the Master of Life, was painted 
As an eg^, with points projecting 
To the four winds of the heavens. 
Everywhere is the Great Spirit, 
"Was the meaning of this symbol. 

Mitche Manito the Mighty, 
He the dreadful Spirit of Evil, 
As a serpent was depicted, 
As Kenabeek, the great serpent. 
Very crafty, very cunning, 
Is the creeping Spirit of Evil, 
Was the meaning of this symbol. 

Life and death he drew as circles, 
Life was white, but Death was darkened; 
Sun and moon and stars he painted, 
Man and beast, and fish and reptile, 
Forests, mountains, lakes, and rivers. 

For the earth he drew a straight line, 
For the sky a bow above it; 
White the space between for day-time. 
Filled with little stars for night-time; 
On the left a point for sunrise, 
On the right a point for sunset, 
On the top a point for noon-tide, 
And for rain and cloudy weather 
Waving lines descending from it. 

Footprints pointing towards a wigwam 
Were a sign of invitation, 
Were a sign of guests assembling; 
Bloody hands with palms uplifted 
Were a symbol of destruction, 
Were a hostile sign and symbol. 

All these things did Hiawatha 
Show unto his wondering people, 
And interpreted their meaning, 
And he said : " Behold, your grave-posts 
Have no mark, no sign, nor symbol. 
Go and paint them all with figures; 
Each one with its household symbol, 
With its own ancestral Totem; 
So that those who follow after 
May distinguish them and know them." 

And they painted on the grave-posts 
Of the graves yet unforgotten, 
Each his own ancestral Totem, 
Each the symbol of his household : 



420 THE SOISTG OF HIAWATHA. 

Figures of the Bear and Reindeer, 
Of the Turtle, Crane, and Beaver, 
Each inverted as a token 
That the owner was departed, 
That the chief who bore the symbol 
Lay beneath in dust and ashes. 

And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets, 
The Wabenos, the Magicians, 
And the Medicine-men, the Medas, 
Painted upon bark and deer-skin 
Figures for the songs they chanted, 
For each song a separate symbol, 
Figures mystical and awful, 
Figures strange and brightly coloured j 
And each figure had its meaning, 
Each some magic song suggested. 

The Great Spirit, the Creator, 
Flashing light through all the heaven; 
The Great Serpent, the Kenabeek, 
With his bloody crest erected, 
Creeping, looking into heaven; 
In the sky the sun, that listens, 
And the moon eclipsed and dying : 
Owl and eagle, crane and hen-hawk, 
And the cormorant, bird of magic; 
Headless men, that walk the heavens, 
Bodies lying pierced with arrows, 
Bloody hands of death uplifted, 
Flags on graves, and great war-captains 
Grasping both the earth and heaven ! 

Such as these the shapes they painted 
On the birch-bark and the deer-skin; 
Songs of war and songs of hunting, 
Songs of medicine and of magic, 
All were written in these figures, 
For each figure had its meaning, 
Each its separate song recorded. 

Nor forgotten was the Love-Song, 
The most subtle of all medicines, 
The most potent spell of magic, 
Dangerous more than war Or hunting! 
Thus the Love-Song was recorded, 
Symbol and interpretation. 

First a human figure standing, 
Painted in the brightest scarlet; 
'Tis the lover, the musician, 
And the meaning is, " My painting 
Makes me powerful over others." 

Then the figure seated, singing, 



HIAWATHA'S LAMENTATION, 421 

Playing on a drum of magic, 
And the interpretation, " Listen ! 
'Tis my voice you hear, my singing I " 

Then the same red figure seated 
In the shelter of a wigwam, 
And the meaning of the symbol, 
" I will come and sit beside you 
In the mystery of my passion ! " 

Then two figures, man and woman, 
Standing hand in hand together, 
With their hands so clasped. together 
That they seem imone united, 
And the words thus represented 
Are, " I see your heart within you, 
And your cheeks are red with blushes ! n 

Next the maiden on an island, 
In the centre of an island; 
And the song this shape suggested 
Was, " Though you were at a distance, 
Were upon some far-off island, 
Such the spell I cast upon you, 
Such the magic power of passion, 
I could straightway draw you to me ! " 

Then the figure of the maiden 
Sleeping, and the lover near her, 
Whispering to her in her slumbers, 
Saying, " Though you were far from me 
In the land of Sleep and Silence, 
Still the voice of love would reach you \ n 

And the last of all the figures 
Was a heart within a circle, 
Drawn within a magic circle; 
And the image had this meaning : 
" Naked lies your heart before me, 
To your naked heart I whisper ! " 

Thus it was that Hiawatha, 
In his wisdom, taught the people 
All the mysteries of painting, 
All the art of Picture- Writing, 
On the smooth bark of the birch-tre* 
On the white skin of the reindeer, 
On the grave-posts of the village. 

XV. 

hiawatha's lamentation. 

In those days the Evil Spirits, 
All the Manitos of mischief, 
Fearing Hiawatha's wisdom, 



422 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

And his love for Chibiabos, 
Jealous of their faithful friendship, 
And their noble words and actions, 
Made at length a league against them, 
To molest them and destroy them. 

Hiawatha, wise and waiy, 
Often said to Chibiabos, 
" my brother ! do not leave me, 
Lest the Evil Spirits harm you ! " 
Chibiabos, young and heedless, 
Laughing shook his coal-black tresses, 
Answered ever sweet and childlike, 
" Do not fear for me, brother ! 
Harm and evil come not near me ! " 

Once when Peboan, the Winter, 
Roofed with ice the Big-Sea -Water, 
When the snow-flakes, whirling downward., 
Hissed among the withered oak-leaves, 
Changed the pine-trees into wigwams, 
Covered all the earth with silence, 
Armed with arrows, shod with snow-shoes, 
Heeding not his brother's warning, 
Fearing not the Evil Spirits, 
Forth to hunt the deer with antlers 
All alone went Chibiabos. 

Eight across the Big-Sea- Water 
Sprang with speed the deer before him. 
With the wind and snow he followed, 
O'er the treacherous ice he followed, 
Wild with all the fierce commotion 
And the rapture of the hunting. 

But beneath, the Evil Spirits 
Lay in ambush, waiting for him, 
Broke the treacherous ice beneath him, 
Dragged him downward to the bottom, 
Buried in the sand his body. 
Unktahee, the god of water, 
He the god of the Dacotahs, 
Drowned him in the deep abysses 
Of the lake of Gitche Gumee. 

From the headlands Hiawatha 
Sent forth such a wail of anguish, 
Such a fearful lamentation, 
That the bison paused to listen, 
And the wolves howled from the prairies, 
And the thunder in the distance 
Starting answered, " Baim-wawa!" 

Then his face with black he painted, 
With his robe his head he covered, 



hiawatha's lamentation. 

In his wigwam sat lamenting, 
Seven long weeks he sat lamenting, 
Uttering still this moan of sorrow : — 

" He is dead, the sweet musician ! 
He the sweetest of all singers! 
He has gone from us for ever, 
He has moved a little nearer 
To the Master of all music, 
To the Master of all singing ! 
my brother, Chibiabos ! " 

And the melancholy fir-trees 
Waved their dark green fans above him, 
"Waved their purple cones above him, 
Sighing with him to console him, 
Mingling with his lamentation 
Their complaining, their lamenting. 

Came the Spring, and all the forest 
Looked in vain for Chibiabos; 
Sighed the rivulet, Sebowisha, 
Sighed the rushes in the meadow. 

From the tree-tops sang the blue-bird, 
Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
"Chibiabos! Chibiabos! 
He is dead, the sweet musician ! M 

From the wigwam sang the robin, 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
"Chibiabos! Chibiabos! 
He is dead, the sweetest singer ! " 

And at night through all the forest 
Went the whippoorwill complaining, 
Wailing went the Wawonaissa, 
"Chibiabos! Chibiabos! 
He is dead, the sweet musician ! 
He the sweetest of all singers ! " 

Then the medicine-men, the Medas, 
The magicians, the Wabenos, 
And the Josakeeds, the prophets, 
Came to visit Hiawatha; 
Built a Sacred Lodge beside him, 
To appease him, to console him, 
Walked in silent, grave procession, 
Bearing each a pouch of healing, 
Skin of beaver, lynx, or otter, 
Filled with magic roots and simples, 
Filled with very potent medicines. 

When he heard their steps approaching, 
Hiawatha ceased lamenting, 
Called no more on Chibiabos; 
Naught he questioned, naught he answered, 






424 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

But his mournful head uncovered, 
From his face the mourning colours 
Washed he slowly and in silence, 
Slowly and in silence followed 
Onward to the Sacred Wigwam. 

There a magic drink they gave him, 
Made of Nahma-wusk, the spearmint, 
And Wabeno-wusk. the yarrow, 
Hoots of power, and herbs of healing; 
Beat their drums, and shook their rattles; 
Chanted singly and in chorus, 
Mystic songs like these, they chanted, 

" I myself, myself ! behold me ! 
'Tis the great Gray Eagle talking; 
Come, ye white crows, come and hear him ! 
The loud-speaking thunder helps me ; 
All the unseen spirits help me; 
I can hear their voices calling, 
All around the sky I hear them ! 
I can blow you strong, my brother, 
I can heal you, Hiawatha ! " 

" Hi-au-ha ! " replied the chorus, 
4< Way-ha-way ! " the mystic chorus. 

u Friends of mine afe all the serpents I 
Hear me shake my skin of hen-hawk ! 
Mahng, the white loon, I can kill him ; 
I can shoot your heart and kill it ! 
I can blow you strong, my brother ! 
I can heal you, Hiawatha ! " 

" Hi-au-ha ! " replied the chorus, 
" Way-ha-way ! " the mystic chorus. 

" I myself, myself ! the prophet ! 
When I speak the wigwam trembles, 
Shakes the Sacred Lodge with terror, 
Hands unseen begin to shake it ! 
When I walk, the sky I tread on 
Bends and makes a noise beneath me ! 
I can blow you strong, my brother ! 
Rise and speak, Hiawatha ! " 

" Hi-au-ha ! " replied the chorus, 
u Way-ha-way ! " the mystic chorus. 

Then they shook their medicine-pouches, 
O'er the head of Hiawatha, 
Danced their medicine-dance around him: 
And upstarting wild and haggard, 
Like a man from dreams awakened, 
He was healed of all his madness. 
As the clouds are swept from heaven, 
Straightway from, his brain departed 




HIAWATHA'S LAMENTATION. 425 

All his moody melancholy; 
As the ice is swept from rivers, 
Straightway from his heart departed 
All his sorrow and affliction. 

Then they summoned Chibiabos 
From his grave beneath the waters, 
From the sands of Gitche Gumee 
Summoned Hiawatha's brother. 
And so mighty was the magic 
Of that cry and invocation, 
That he heard it as he lay there 
Underneath the Big-Sea- Water; 
From the sand he rose and listened, 
Heard the music and the singing, 
Came, obedient to the summons, 
To the doorway of the wigwam, 
But to enter they forbade him. 

Through a chink a coal they gave him, 
Through the door a burning fire-brand; 
Ruler in the Land of Spirits, 
Ruler o'er the dead, they made him, 
Telling him a fire* to kindle 
For all those that died thereafter, 
Camp-fires for their night encampments 
On their solitary journey 
To the kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the land of the Hereafter. 

From the village of his childhood, 
From the homes of those who knew him, 
Passing silent through the forest, 
Like a smoke-wreath wafted sideways, 
Slowly vanished Chibiabos ! 
Where he passed, the branches moved not, 
Where he trod, the grasses bent not, 
And the fallen leaves of last year 
Made no sound beneath his footsteps. 

Four whole days he journeyed onward 
Down the pathway of the dead men; 
On the dead-man's strawberry feasted, 
Crossed the melancholy river, 
On the swinging log he crossed it, 
Came unto the Lake of Silver, 
In the Stone Canoe was carried 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the land of ghosts and shadows. 

On that journey, moving slowly, 
Many weary spirits saw he, 
Panting under heavy burdens, 
Laden with war- clubs, bows and arrows, 



426 THE SONG OP HIAWATHA. 

Robes of fur, and pots and kettles, 
And with food that Mends had given 
For that solitary journey. 

" Ah ! why do the living," said they 
" Lay such heavy burdens on us ! 
Better were it to go naked, 
Better were it to go fasting, 
Than to bear such heavy burdens 
On our long and weary journey !" 

Forth then issued Hiawatha, 
Wandered eastward, wandered westward, 
Teaching men the use of simples 
And the antidotes for poisons, 
And the cure of all diseases. 
Thus was first made known to mortals 
All the mystery of Medamin, 
All the sacred art of healing. 



XYI. 

PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
lie, the handsome Yenadizze, 
Whom the people called the Storm-Fool, 
Vexed the village with disturbance; 
You shall hear of all his mischief, 
And his flight from Hiawatha, 
And his wondrous transmigrations, 
And the end of his adventures. 

On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, 
By the shining Big- Sea- Water 
Stood the lodge of Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
It was he who in his frenzy 
Whirled these drifting sands together, 
On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, 
When, among the guests assembled, 
He so merrily and madly 
Danced at Hiawatha's wedding, 
Danced the Beggars Dance to please them. 

Now, in search of new adventures, 
From his lodge went Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Came with speed into the village, 
Found the young men all assembled 
In the lodge of old lagoo, 
Listening to his monstrous stories, 
To his wonderful adventures. 

He was telling them the story 



PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 427 

Of Ojeeg, the Summer-Maker, 
How he made a hole in heaven, 
How he climbed up into heaven, 
And let out the Summer-weather, 
The perpetual pleasant Summer; 
How the Otter first essayed it; 
How the Beaver, Lynx, and Badger 
Tried in turn the great achievement, 
From the summit of the mountain 
Smote their fists against the heavens, 
Smote against the sky their foreheads, 
Cracked the sky, but could not break it; 
How the Wolverine, uprising, 
Made him ready for the encounter, 
Bent his knees down, like a squirrel, 
Drew his arms back, like a cricket. 

" Once he leaped," said old Iagoo, 
" Once he leaped, and lo ! above him 
Bent the sky, as ice in rivers 
When the waters rise beneath it; 
Twice he leaped, and lo! above him 
Cracked the sky, as ice in rivers 
When the freshet is at highest ! 
Thrice he leaped, and lo ! above him 
Broke the shattered sky asunder, 
And he disappeared within it, 
And Ojeeg, the Fisher Weasel, 
With a bound went in behind him ! " 

" Hark you ! " shouted Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As he entered at the doorway; 
" I am tired of all this talking, 
Tired of old Iagoo's stories, 
Tired of Hiawatha's wisdom. 
Here is something to amuse you, 
Better than this endless talking." 

Then from out his pouch of wolf -skin, 
Forth he drew, with solemn manner, 
All the game of Bowl and Counters, 
Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces. 
White on one side were they painted, 
Ajid vermilion on the other; 
Two Kenabeeks, or great serpents, 
Two Ininewug, or wedge-men, 
One great war-club, Pugamaugun, 
And one slender fish, the Keego, 
Four round pieces, Ozawabeeks, 
And three Sheshebwug or ducklings. 
All were made of bone and painted, 
All except the Ozawabeeks; 



428 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA, 

These were brass, on one side burnished, 
And were black upon the other. 

In a wooden bowl he placed them, 
Shook and jostled them together, 
Threw them on the ground before him, 
Thus exclaiming and explaining: 
" Red side up are all the pieces, 
And one great Kenabeek standing 
On the bright side of a brass piece, 
On a burnished Ozawabeek; 
Thirteen tens and eight are counted." 

Then again he shook the pieces, 
Shook and jostled them together, 
Threw them on the ground before him, 
Still exclaiming and explaining : 
u White are both the great Kenabeeks, . 
White the Ininewug, the wedge-men, 
Bed are all the other pieces; 
Five tens and an eight are counted." 

Thus he taught the game of hazard, 
Thus displayed it and explained it, 
Running through its various chances, 
Various changes, various meanings: 
Twenty curious eyes stared at him 
Full of eagerness stared at him. 

"Many games," said old lagoo, 
" Many games of skill and hazard 
Have I seen in different nations, 
Have I played in different countries. 
He who plays with old lagoo 
Must have very nimble fingers; 
Though you think yourself so skilful, 
I can beat you, Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
I can even give you lessons 
In your game of Bowl and Counters ! " 

So they sat and played together, 
All the old men and the young men, 
Played for dresses, weapons, wampum, 
Played till midnight, played till morning, 
Played until the Yenadizze, 
Till the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Of their treasures had despoiled them, 
Of the best of all their dresses, 
Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, 
Belts of wampum, crests of feathers, 
Warlike weapons, pipes and pouches. 
Twenty eyes glared wildly at him, 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at him. 

Said the lucky Pau-Puk-Keewis: 



PATT-PTHMCEEWIS, 

" In niy wigwam I cam lonely, 
In my wanderings and adventures 
I have need of a companion, 
Fain would have a Meshinauwa, 
An attendant and pipe-bearer. 
I will venture all these winnings, 
All these garments heaped about me, 
All this wampum, all these feathers, 
On a single throw will venture 
All against the young man yonder ! " 
'Twas a youth of sixteen summers, 
'Twas a nephew of Iagoo ; 
Faee-in-a-Mist, the people called him. 

As the fire burns in a pipe-head 
Dusky red beneath the ashes, 
So beneath his shaggy eyebrows 
Glowed the eyes of old Iagoo. 
" Ugh ! " he answered very fiercely; 
" 13 gh ! " they answered all and each one 

Seized the wooden bowl the old man, 
Closely in his bony fingers 
Clutched the fatal bowl, Onagon, 
Shook it fiercely and with fury, 
Made the pieces ring together 
As he threw them down before him. 

Red were both the great Kenabeeks, 
Red the Ininewug, the wedge-men, 
Red the Sheshebwug, the ducklings. 
Black the four brass Ozawabeeks, 
White alone the fish, the Keego; 
Only five the pieces counted ! 

Then the smiling Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Shook the bowl and threw the pieces; 
Lightly in the air he tossed them, 
And they fell about him scattered; 
Dark and bright the Ozawabeeks, 
Red and white the other pieces, 
And upright among the others 
One Ininewug was standing, 
Even as crafty Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Stood alone among the players, 
Saying " Five tens ! mine the game is ! " 

Twenty eyes glared at him fiercely, 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at him, 
As he turned and left the wigwam, 
Followed by his Meshinauwa, 
By the nephew of Iagoo, 
By the tall and graceful stripling, 
Bearing in his arms the winnings, 



429 



2E 



430 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, 
Belts of wampum, pipes and weapons. 

" Carry them," said Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pointing with his fan of feathers, 
" To my wigwam far to eastward, 
On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo!" 

Hot and red with smoke and gambling 
Were the eyes ef Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As he came forth to the freshness 
Of the pleasant summer morning. 
All the birds were singing gaily, 
All the streamlets flowing swiftly, 
And the heart of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sang with pleasure as the birds sing, 
Beat with triumph like the streamlets, 
As he wandered through the village, 
In the early gray of morning, 
With his fan of turkey-feathers, 
With his plumes and tufts of swan's down, 
Till he reached the furthest wigwam, 
Reached the lodge of Hiawatha. 

Silent was it and deserted; 
No one met him at the doorway, 
No one came to bid him welcome; 
But the birds were singing round it, 
In and out and round the doorway, 
Hopping, singing, fluttering, feeding, 
And aloft upon the ridge-pole 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Sat with fiery eyes, and, screaming, 
Flapped his wings at Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

"All are gone! the lodge is empty !" 
Thus it was spake Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
In his heart resolving mischief; 
" Gone is wary Hiawatha, 
Gone the silly Laughing Water, 
Gone Nokomis, the old woman, 
And the lodge is left unguarded ! " 

By the neck he seized the raven, 
Whirled it round him like a rattle, 
Like a medicine-pouch he shook it, 
Strangled Kahgahgee, the raven, 
From the ridge-pole of his wigwam 
Left its lifeless body hanging, 
As an insult to its master, 
As a taunt to Hiawatha. 

With a stealthy step he entered, 
Round the lodge in wild disorder 
Threw the household things about him, 



THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-XESJWIS, 

Piled together in confusion 
Bowla of wood and earthen kettles, 
Kobes of buffalo and beaver, 
Skins of otter, lynx, and ermine, 
As an insult to Nokomis, 
As a taunt to Minnehaha. 

Then departed Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Whistling, singing through the forest, 
Whistling gaily to the squirrels, 
Who from hollow boughs above him 
Dropped their acorn-shells upon him, 
Singing gaily to the wood-birds, 
Who from out the leafy darkness 
Answered with a song as merry. 

Then he climbed the rocky headlands, 
Looking o'er the Gitche Gumee, 
Perched himself upon their summit, 
Waiting full of mirth and mischief 
The return of Hiawatha. 

Stretched upon his back he lay there ; 
Far below him plashed the waters, 
Plashed and washed the dreamy waters ; 
Far above him swam the heavens, 
Swam the dizzy, dreamy heavens; 
Round him hovered, fluttered, rustled, 
Hiawatha's mountain chickens, 
Flock-wise swept and wheeled about him, 
Almost brushed him with their pinions. 

And he killed them as he lay there, 
Slaughtered them by tens and twenties, 
Threw their bodies down the headland, 
Threw them on the beach below him, 
Till at length Kayoshk, the sea-gull, 
Perched upon a crag above them, 
Shouted: "It is Pau-Puk-Keewis! 
He is slaying us by hundreds ! 
Send a message to our brother, 
Tidings send to Hiawatha ! " 



XYIL 

THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWIS 



Full of wrath was Hiawatha 
When he came into the village, 
Found the people in confusion, 
Heard of all the misdemeanours, 






432 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

All the malice and the mischief, 
Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

Hard his breath came through his nostrils, 
Through his teeth he buzzed and muttered 
Words of anger and resentment, 
Hot and humming, like a hornet. 
" I will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Slay this mischief-maker ! " said he. 
" Not so long and wide the world is, 
Not so rude and rough the way is, 
That my wrath shall not attain him, 
That my vengeance shall not reach him I " 

Then in swift pursuit departed 
Hiawatha and the hunters 
On the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Through the forest, where he passed it, 
To the headlands where he rested; 
But they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Only in the trampled grasses, 
In the whortleberry bushes, 
Found the couch where he had rested, 
Found the impress of his body. 

From the lowlands far beneath them, 
From the Muskoday, the meadow, 
Pau-Puk-Keewis, turning backward, 
Made a gesture of defiance, 
Made a gesture of derision; 
And aloud cried Hiawatha, 
From the summit of the mountain : 
u Not so long and wide the world is, 
Not so rude and rough the way is, 
But my wrath shall overtake you, 
And my vengeance shall attain you ! M 

Over rock and over river, 
Thorough bush, and brake, and forest, 
Ban the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis; 
Like an antelope he bounded, 
Till he came unto a streamlet 
In the middle of the forest, 
To a streamlet still and tranquil, 
That had overflowed its margin, 
To a dam made by the beavers, 
To a pond of quiet water, 
Where knee-deep the trees were standing, 
Where the water-lilies floated, 
Where the rushes waved and whispered. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
On the dam of trunks and branches, 
Through whose chinks the water spouted, 



£RK H OE PAU-j^UK-ITEEWIS. 433 

O'er whose summit flowed the streamlet-. 
From the bottom rose a beaver, 
Looked with two great eyes of wonder. 
Eves that seemed to ask a question, 
At the stranger, Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet, 
Flowed the bright and silvery water, 
And he spake imto the beaver, 
With a smile he spake in this wise : 

" my friend Ahmeek, the beaver, 
Cool and pleasant is the water; 
Let me dive into the water, 
Let me rest there in your lodges; 
Change me, too, into a beaver ! " 

Cautiously replied the beaver, 
With reserve he thus made answer: 
" Let me first consult the others, 
Let me ask the other beavers." 
Down he sank into the water, 
Heavily sank he, as a stone sinks, 
Down among the leaves and branches, 
Brown and matted at the bottom. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet, 
Spouted through the chinks below him. 
Dashed upon the stones beneath him, 
Spread serene and calm before him, 
And the sunshine and the shadows 
Fell in flecks and gleams upon him, 
Fell in little shining patches, 
Through the waving, rustling branches. 

From the bottom rose the beavers, 
Silently above the surface 
Rose one head and then another, 
Till the pond seemed full of beavers, 
Full of black and shining faces. 

To the beavers Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Spake entreating, said in this wise : 
" Very pleasant is your dwelling, 
my friends ! and safe from danger; 
Can you not with all your cunning, 
All your wisdom and contrivance, 
Change me, too, into a beaver?" 

" Yes ! " replied Ahmeek, the beaver. 
He the King of all the beavers, 
" Let yourself slide down among us, 
Down into the tranquil water." 

Down into the pond among them 



434 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis; 
Black became his shirt of deer-skin, 
Black his moccasins and leggings, 
In a broad black tail behind him 
Spread his fox-tails and his fringes; 
He was changed into a beaver. 

" Make me large/' said Pau-Puk-Keewis 
" Make me large and make me larger, 
Larger than the other beavers.'' 
" Yes/' the beaver chief responded, 
" When our lodge below you enter, 
In our wigwam we will make you 
Ten times larger than the others." 

Thus into the clear, brown water 
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis; 
Found the bottom covered over 
With the trunks of trees and branches. 
Hoards of food against the winter, 
Piles and heaps against the famine, 
Found the lodge with arching doorway 
Leading into spacious chambers. 

Here they made him large and larger, 
Made him largest of the beavers, 
Ten times larger than the others. 
" You shall be our ruler/' said they; 
" Chief and king of all the beavers/ 7 

But not long had Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sat in state among the beavers, 
When there came a voice of warning 
From the watchman at his station 
In the water-flags and lilies, 
Saying, "Here is Hiawatha! 
Hiawatha with his hunters ! " 

Then they heard a cry above them„ 
Heard a shouting and a tramping, 
Heard a crashing and a rushing, 
And the water round and o'er them 
Sank and sucked away in eddies, 
And they knew their dam was broken. 

On the lodge's roof the hunters 
Leaped, and broke it all asunder ; 
Streamed the sunshine through the crevice. 
Sprang the beavers through the doorway, 
Hid themselves in deeper water, 
In the channel of the streamlet; 
But the mighty Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Could not pass beneath the doorway; 
He was puffed with pride and feeding, 
He was swollen like a bladder. 



THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 435 

Through the roof looked Hiawatha, 
Cried aloud, " Pau-Puk-Keewis ! 
Vain are all your craft and cunning, 
Vain your manifold disguises ! 
Well I know you, Pau-Puk-Keewis!" 

With their clubs they beat and bruised him, 
Beat to death poor Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pounded him as maize is pounded, 
Till his skull was crushed to pieces. 

Six tall hunters, lithe and limber, 
Bore him home on poles and branches, 
Bore the body of the beaver; 
But the ghost, the Jeebi in him, 
Thought and felt as Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Still lived on as Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

And it fluttered, strove, and struggled. 
Waving hither, waving thither, 
As the curtains of a wigwam 
Struggle with their thongs of deer-skin, 
When the wintry wind is blowing; 
Till it drew itself together, 
Till it rose up from the body, 
Till it took the form and features 
Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Vanishing into the forest. 

But the wary Hiawatha 
Saw the figure ere it vanished, 
Saw the form of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Glide into the soft blue shadow 
Of the pine-trees of the forest; 
Toward the squares of white beyond it, 
Toward an opening in the forest, 
Like a wind it rushed and panted, 
Bending all the boughs before it, 
And behind it, as the rain comes, 
Came the steps of Hiawatha. 

To a lake with many islands 
Came the breathless Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Where among the water-lilies 
Pishnekuh, the brant, were sailing; 
Through the tufts of rushes floating, 
Steering through the reedy islands. 
Now their broad black beaks they lifted, 
Now they plunged beneath the water, 
Now they darkened in the shadow, 
Now they brightened in the sunshine. 

" Pishnekuh ! " cried Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
" Pishnekuh ! my brothers ! " said he, 
" Change me to a brant with plumage. 



436 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

"With, a shining neck and feathers, 
Make me large, and make me larger, 
Ten times larger than the others." 

Straightway to a brant they changed him, 
With two huge and dusky pinions, 
With a bosom smooth and rounded, 
With a bill like two great paddles, 
Made him larger than the others, 
Ten times larger than the largest, 
Just as, shouting from the forest, 
On the shore stood Hiawatha. 

Up they rose with cry and clamour, 
With a whirr and beat of pinions, 
Rose up from the reedy islands, 
From the water-flags and lilies. 
And they said to Pau-Puk-Keewis : 
" In your flying, look not downward, 
Take good heed, and look not downward, 
Lest some strange mischance should happen, 
Lest some great mishap befall you ! " 

Fast and far they fled to northward, 
Fast and far through mist and sunshine, 
Fed among the moors and fen-lands, 
Slept among the reeds and rushes. 

On the morrow as they journeyed, 
Buoyed and lifted by the South-wind, 
Wafted onward by the South-wind, 
Blowing fresh and strong behind them, 
Rose a sound of human voices, 
Rose a clamour from beneath them, 
From the lodges of a village, 
From the people miles beneath them. 

For the people of the village 
Saw the flock of brant with wonder, 
Saw the wings of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Flapping far up in the ether, 
Broader than two doorway curtains. 

Pau-Puk-Keewis heard the shouting, 
Knew the voice of Hiawatha, 
Knew the outcry of Iagoo, 
And, forgetful of the warning, 
Drew, his neck in, and looked downward, 
And the wind that blew behind him 
Caught his mighty fan of feathers, 
Sent him wheeling, whirling downward ! 

All in vain did Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Struggle to regain his balance ! 
Whirling round and round and downward. 
He beheld in turn the village 



THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 437 

And in turn the flock above him, 
Saw the village coming nearer, 
And the flock receding farther, 
Heard the voices growing louder, 
Heard the shouting and the laughter ; 
Saw no more the flock above him, 
Only saw the earth beneath him ; 
Dead out of the empty heaven, 
Dead among the shouting people, 
With a heavy sound and sullen, 
Fell the brant with broken pinions. 

But his soul, his ghost, his shadow, 
Still survived as Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Took again the form and features 
Of the handsome Yenadizze, 
And again went rushing onward, 
Followed fast by Hiawatha, 
Crying : " Not so wide the world is, 
Not so long and rough the way is, 
But my wrath shall overtake you, 
But my vengeance shall attain you !" 

And so near he came, so near him, 
That his hand was stretched to seize him, 
His right hand to seize and hold him, 
When the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Whirled and spun about in circles, 
Fanned the air into a whirlwind, 
Danced the dust and leaves about him, 
And amid the whirling eddies 
Sprang into a hollow oak-tree, 
Changed himself into a serpent, 
Gliding out through root and rubbish, 

With his right hand Hiawatha 
Smote amain the hollow oak-tree, 
Bent it into shreds and splinters, 
Left it lying there in fragments. 
But in vain; for Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Once again in human figure, 
Full in sight ran on before him, 
Sped away in gust and whirlwind, 
On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
Westward by the Big-Sea- Water, 
Came unto the rocky headlands, 
To the Pictured Hocks of sandstone, 
Looking over lake and landscape. 

And the Old Man of the Mountain, 
He the Manito of Mountains, 
Opened wide his rocky doorways, 
Opened wide his deep abysses, 



438 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Giving Pau-Puk-Keewis shelter 
In his caverns dark and dreary, 
Bidding Pau-Puk-Keewis welcome 
To his gloomy lodge of sandstone. 

There without stood Hiawatha, 
Found the doorways closed against him, 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Smote great caverns in the sandstone, 
Cried aloud in tones of thunder, 
" Open ! I am Hiawatha ! " 
But the Old Man of the Mountain 
Opened not, and made no answer 
From the silent crags of sandstone, 
From the gloomy rock abysses. 

Then he raised his hands to heaven, 
Called imploring on the tempest, 
Called Waywassimo, the lightning, 
And the thunder, Annemeekee; 
And they came with night and darkness, 
Sweeping down the Big-Sea- Water 
From the distant Thunder Mountains; 
And the trembling Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Heard the footsteps of the thunder, 
Saw the red eyes of the lightning, 
Was afraid, and crouched and trembled. 

Then Waywassimo, the lightning, 
Smote the doorways of the caverns, 
With his war-club smote the doorways, 
Smote the jutting crags of sandstone. 
And the thunder, Annemeekee, 
Shouted down into the caverns, 
Saying, "Where is Pau-Puk-Keewis!" 
And the crags fell, and beneath them 
Dead among the rocky ruins 
Lay the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Lay the handsome Yenadizze, 
Slain in his own human figure. 

Ended were his wild adventures, 
Ended were his tricks and gambols, 
Ended all his craft and cunning, 
Ended all his mischief -making, 
All his gambling and his dancing, 
All his wooing of the maidens. 

Then the noble Hiawatha 
Took his soul, his ghost, his shadow, 
Spake and said : " Pau-Puk-Keewis ! 
Never more in human figure 
Shall you search for new adventures; 
Never more with jest and laughter 



THE DEATH OP KWASIND. - 439 

Dance the dust and leaves in whirlwinds; 

But above there in the heavens 

You shall soar and sail in circles; 

I will change you to an eagle, 

To Keneu, the great war-eagle, 

Chief of all the fowls with feathers, 

Chief of Hiawatha's chickens." 

And the name of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Lingers still among the people, 
Lingers still among the singers, 
And among the story-tellers; 
And in Winter, when the snow-flakes 
Whirl in eddies round the lodges, 
When the wind in gusty tumult 
O'er the smoke-flue pipes and whistles, 
" There," they cry, " comes Pau-Puk-Keewis; 
He is dancing through the village, 
He is gathering in his harvest ! " 

XVIIL 

THE DEATH OF KWASIND. 

Far and wide among the nations 
Spread the name and fame of Kwasind; 
No man dared to strive with Kwasind, 
No man could compete with Kwasind. 
But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies, 
They the envious Little People, 
They the fairies and the pigmies, 
Plotted and conspired against him. 

" If this hateful Kwasind," said they, 
" If this great, outrageous fellow 
Goes on thus a little longer, 
Tearing everything he touches, 
Bending everything to pieces, 
Filling all the world with wonder, 
What becomes of the Puk-Wudjies? 
Who will care for the Puk-Wudjies? 
He will tread us down like mushrooms, 
Drive us all into the water, 
Give our bodies to be eaten 
By the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs, 
By the Spirits of the water ! " 

So the angry Little People 
All conspired against the Strong Man, 
All conspired to murder Kwasind, 
Yes, to rid the world of Kwasind, 
The audacious, overbearing, 
Heartless, haughty, dangerous Kwasind 1 



440 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Now this wondrous strength of Kwasind 
In his crown alone was seated; 
In his crown too was his weakness; 
There alone could he be wounded, 
Nowhere else could weapon pierce him, 
Nowhere else could weapon harm him. 

Even there the only weapon 
That could wound him, that could slay him, 
Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree, 
Was the blue cone of the fir-tree. 
This was Kwasind's fatal secret, 
Known to no man among mortals; 
But the cunning Little People, 
The Puk-Wudjies, knew the secret, 
Knew the only way to kill him. 

So they gathered cones together, 
Gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree, 
Gathered blue cones of the fir-tree, 
In the woods by Taquamenaw, 
Brought them to the river's margin, 
Heaped them in great piles together, 
Where the red rocks from the margin 
Jutting overhang the river. 
There they lay in wait for Kwasind^ 
The malicious Little People. 

'Twas an afternoon in summer; 
Very hot and still the air was, 
Very smooth the gliding river, 
Motionless the sleeping shadows : 
Insects glistened in the sunshine, 
Insects skated on the water, 
Filled the drowsy air with buzzing, 
With a far-resounding war-cry. 

Down the river came the Strong Man. 
In his birch canoe came Kwasind, 
Floating slowly down the current 
Of the sluggish Taquamenaw, 
Very languid with the weather, 
v ery sleepy with the silence. 

From the overhanging branches, 
From the tassels of the birch-trees, 
Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended; 
By his airy hosts surrounded, 
His invisible attendants, 
Came the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin; 
Like the burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she, 
Like a dragon-fly, he hovered 
O'er the drowsy head of Kwasind, 

To his ear there came a murmur 



THE DEATH OF KWASIND. 

A3 of waves upon a sea-shore, 
As of far-off tumbling waters, 
As of winds among the pine-trees; 
And he felt upon his forehead 
Blows of little airy war-clubs, 
Wielded by the slumbrous legions 
Of the Spirit of Sleep, Nepali win, 
As of some one breathing on him. 

At the first blow of their war-clubs 
Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind; 
At the second blow they smote him, 
Motionless his paddle rested; 
At the third, before his vision 
Reeled the landscape into darkness, 
Tery sound asleep was Kwasind. 

So he floated down the river, 
Like a blin^. man seated upright, 
Floated down the Taquamenaw, 
Underneath the trembling birch trees, 
Underneath the wooded headlands, 
Underneath the war encampment 
Of the pigmies, the Puk-Wudjies. 

There they stood, all armed and waiting, 
Hurled the pine-cones down upon him, 
Struck him on his brawny shoulders, 
On his crown defenceless struck him. 
" Death to Kwasind ! " was the sudden 
War-cry of the Little People. 

And he sideways swayed and tumbled, 
Sideways fell into the river, 
Plunged beneath the sluggish water 
Headlong, as an otter plunges; 
And the birch canoe, abandoned, 
Drifted empty down the river, 
Bottom upward swerved and drifted : 
Nothing more was seen of Kwasind. 

But the memory of the Strong Man 
Lingered long among the people, 
And whenever through the forest 
Raged and roared the wintry tempest, 
And the branches, tossed and troubled, 
Creaked and groaned and split asunder, 
"Kwasind!" cried they; "that is Kwasind! 
He is gathering in his firewood ! " 



441 



442 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

XIX. 

THE GHOSTS. 

Never stoops the soaring vulture 
On his quarry in the desert, 
On the sick or wounded bison, 
But another vulture, watching 
From his high aerial look-out, 
Sees the downward plunge, and follows •> 
And a third pursues the second, 
Coming from the invisible ether, 
First a speck, and then a vulture, 
Till the air is dark with pinions. 

So disasters come not singly; 
But as if they watched and waited, 
Scanning one another's motions, 
When the first descends, the others 
Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise 
Round their victim, sick and wounded, 
First a shadow, then a sorrow, 
Till the air is dark with anguish. 

Now, o'er all the dreary Northland, 
Mighty Peboan, the "Winter, 
Breathing on the lakes and rivers, 
Into stone had changed their waters, 
From his hair he shook the snow-flakes, 
Till the plains were strewn with whiteness, 
One uninterrupted level, 
As if, stooping, the Creator 
With his hand had smoothed them over. 

Through the forest, wide and wailing, 
Roamed the hunter on his snow-shoes; 
In the village worked the women, 
Pounded maize, or dressed the deer-skin; 
And the young men played together 
On the ice the noisy ball-play, 
On the plain the dance of snow-shoes. 

One dark evening, after sundown, 
In her wigwam Laughing Water 
Sat with old Nokomis, waiting 
For the steps of Hiawatha 
Homeward from the hunt returning. 

On their faces gleamed the firelight, 
Painting them with streaks of crimson, 
In the eyes of old Nokomis, 
Glimmered like the watery moonlight, 
In the eyes of Laughing Water 
Glistened like the sun in water; 



THE GHOSTS. 

And behind them crouched their shadows 
In the corners of the wigwam, 
And the smoke in wreaths above them 
Climbed and crowded through the smoke-flue. 

Then the curtain of the doorway 
From without was slowly lifted; 
Brighter glowed the fire a moment, 
And a moment swerved the smoke-wreath, 
As two women entered softly, 
Passed the doorway uninvited, 
"Without word of salutation, 
Without sign of recognition, 
Sat down in the farthest corner, 
Crouching low among the shadows. 

From their aspect and their garments. 
Strangers seemed they in the village; 
Very pale and haggard were they, 
As they sat there sad and silent, 
Trembling, cowering with the shadows. 

Was it the wind above the smoke-flue 
Muttering down into the wigwam? 
Was it the owl, the Koko-koho, 
Hooting from the dismal forest? 
Sure a voice said in the silence : 
" These are corpses clad in garments, 
These are ghosts that come to haunt you, 
From the kingdom of Ponemah, 
From the land of the Hereafter ! " 

Homeward now came Hiawatha 
From his hunting in the forest, 
With the snow upon his tresses. 
And the red deer on his shoulders. 
At the feet of Laughing Water 
Down he threw his lifeless burden; 
Nobler, handsomer she thought him, 
Than when first he came to woo her, 
First threw down the deer before her, 
As a token of his wishes, 
As a promise of the future. 

Then he turned and saw the strangers, 
Cowering, crouching with the shadows; 
Said within himself, "Who are they? 
What strange guests has Minnehaha ?" 
But he questioned not the strangers, 
Only spake to bid them welcome 
To his lodge, his food, his fireside. 

When the evening meal was ready, 
And the deer had been divided, 
Both the pallid guests, the strangers, 



443 



444 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Springing from among the shadows, 
Seized upon the choicest portions, 
Seized the white fat of the roebuck, 
Set apart for Laughing Water, 
For the wife of Hiawatha, 
Without asking, without thanking, 
Eagerly devoured the morsels, 
Flitted back among the shadows 
In the corner of the wigwam. 

Not a word spake Hiawatha, 
Not a motion made Nokomis, 
Not a gesture Laughing Water; 
Not a change came o'er their features ; 
Only Minnehaha softly 
Whispered, saying, " They are famished, 
Let them do what best delights them ; 
Let them eat, for they are famished." 

Many a daylight dawned and darkened; 
Many a night shook off the daylight 
As the pine shakes off the snow-flakes 
From the midnight of its branches ; 
Day by day the guests unmoving 
Sat there silent in the wigwam; 
But by night, in storm or starlight 
Forth they went into the forest, 
Bringing fire-wood to the wigwam, 
Bringing pine-cones for the burning, 
Always sad and always silent. 

And whenever Hiawatha 
Came from fishing or from hunting, 
When the evening meal was ready, 
And the food had been divided, 
Gliding from their darksome corner, 
Came the pallid guests, the strangers, 
Seized upon the choicest portions 
Set aside for Laughing Water, 
And without rebuke or question 
Flitted back among the shadows. 

Never once had Hiawatha 
By a word or look reproved them; 
Never once had old Nokomis 
Made a gesture of impatience ; 
Never once had Laughing Water 
Shown resentment at the outrage. 
All had they endured in silence, 
That the rights of guest and stranger, 
That the virtue of free-giving, 
By a look might not be lessened, 
By a word might not be broken* 



THE GHOSTS. 

Once at midnight Hiawatha, 
Ever wakeful, ever watchful, 
In the wigwam, dimly lighted 
By the brands that still were burning, 
By the glimmering, flickering fire-light, 
Heard a sighing, oft repeated, 
Heard a sobbing, as of sorrow. 

From his couch rose Hiawatha, 
From his shaggy hides of bison, 
Pushed aside the deer-skin curtain, 
Saw the pallid guests, the shadows, 
Sitting upright on their couches, 
Weeping in the silent midnight. 

And he said : " guests ! why is it 
That your hearts are so afflicted, 
That you sob so in the midnight ? 
Has perchance the old Nokomis, 
Has my wife, my Minnehaha, 
Wronged or grieved you by unkindness, 
Failed in hospitable duties?" 

Then the shadows ceased from weeping, 
Ceased from sobbing and lamenting, 
And they said, with gentle voices : 
" We are ghosts of the departed, 
Souls of those who once were with you. 
From the realms of Chibiabos 
Hither have we come to try you, 
Hither have we come to warn you. 

" Cries of grief and lamentation 
Reach us in the Blessed Islands; 
Cries of anguish from the living, 
Calling back their friends departed, 
Sadden us with useless sorrow. 
Therefore have we come to try you; 
No one knows us, no one heeds us. 
We are but a burden to you, 
And we see that the departed 
Have no place among the living. 

" Think of this, Hiawatha! 
Speak of it to all the people, 
That henceforward and for ever 
They no more with lamentations 
Sadden the souls of the departed 
In the Islands of the Blessed. 

"Do not lay such heavy burdens 
In the graves of those you bury, 
Not such weight of furs and wampum. 
Not such weight of pots and kettles, 
For the spirits faint beneath them. 



445 



2 F 



446 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Only give them food to carry, 
Only give them fire to light them. 

"Four days is the spirit's journey 
To the land of ghosts and shadows, 
Four its lonely night encampments; 
Four times must their fires be lighted. 
Therefore, when the dead are buried, 
Let a fire, as night approaches, 
Four times on the grave be kindled, 
That the soul upon its journey 
May not lack the cheerful fire-light, 
May not grope about in darkness. 

" Farewell, noble Hiawatha 1 
"We have put you to the trial, 
To the proof have put your patience, 
By the insult of our presence, 
By the outrage of our actions. 
We have found you great and noble. 
Fail not in the greater trial, 
Faint not in the harder struggle." 

When they ceased, a sudden darkness 
Fell and filled the silent wigwam. 
Hiawatha heard a rustle 
As of garments trailing by him, 
Heard the curtain of the doorway 
Lifted by a hand he saw not, 
Felt the cold breath of the night air> 
For a moment saw the starlight; 
But he saw the ghosts no longer, 
Saw no more the wandering spirits 
From the kingdom of Ponemah, 
From the land of the Hereafter. 



XX. 

THE FAMINE. 

the long and dreary Winter I 
O the cold and cruel Winter ! 
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker 
Froze the ice on lake and river, 
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper 
Fell the snow o'er all the landscape, 
Fell the covering snow, and drifted 
Through the forest, round the village. 

Hardly from his buried wigwam 
Could the hunter force a passage ; 
With his mittens and his snow-shoes 
Yainly walked he through the forest, 



THE FAMINE. 

Sought for bird or beast and found none, 

Saw no track of deer or rabbit, 

In the snow beheld no footprints, 

In the ghastly, gleaming forest 

Fell, and could not rise from weakness, 

Perished there from cold and hunger. 

the famine and the fever ! 
the wasting of the famine ! 
the blasting of the fever ! 
O the wailing of the children ! 

the anguish of the women ! 

All the earth was sick and famished; 
Hungry was the air around them, 
Hungry was the sky above them, 
And the hungry stars in heaven 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them ! 

Into Hiawatha's wigwam 
Came two other guests, as silent 
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy, 
"Waited not to be invited, 
Did noo parley at the doorway, 
Sat there without word of welcome 
In the seat of Laughing Water ; 
Looked with haggard eges and hollow 
At the face of Laughing Water. 

And the foremost said : " Behold me '! 

1 am Famine, Bukadawin ! " 

And the other said : " Behold me ! 
I am Fever, Ahkosewin ! " 

And the lovely Minnehaha 
Shuddered as they looked upon her, 
Shuddered at the words they uttered, 
Lay down on her bed*in silence, 
Hid her face, but made no answer ; 
Lay there trembling, freezing, burning 
At the looks they cast upon her, 
At the fearful words they uttered. 

Forth into the empty forest 
Rushed the maddened Hiawatha; 
In his heart was deadly sorrow, 
In his face a stony firmness ; 
On his brow the sweat of anguish 
Started, but it froze and fell not. 

Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting, 
With his mighty bow of ash-tree, 
With his quiver full of arrows, 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Into the vast and vacant forest 
On his snow-shoes strode he forward 



447 



448 THE SONG OP HIAWATHA, 

"Gitche Manito, the Mighty !" 
Cried he with his face uplifted 
In that bitter hour of anguish, 
" Give your children food, father ! 
Give us food, or we must perish ! 
Give me food for Minnehaha, 
For my dying Minnehaha ! " 

Through the far-resounding forest, 
Through the forest vast and vacant 
Rang that cry of desolation; 
But there came no other answer 
Than the echo of his crying, 
Than the echo of the woodlands, 
" Minnehaha! Minnehaha!" 

All day long roved Hiawatha 
In that melancholy forest, 
Through the shadow of whose thickets. 
In the pleasant days of Summer, 
Of that ne'er forgotten Summer, 
He had brought his young wife homeward 
From the land of the Dacotahs ; 
When the birds sang in the thickets, 
And the streamlets laughed and glistened, 
And the air was full of fragrance, 
And the lovely Laughing Water 
Said with voice that did not tremble, 
" I will follow you, my husband ! " 

In the wigwam with Nokomis, 
With those gloomy guests, that watched her, 
With the Famine and the Fever, 
She was lying, the Beloved, 
She the dying Minnehaha. 

" Hark ! " she said; " I hear a rushing, 
Hear a roaring and a rushing, 
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to me from a distance ! " 
" No, my child ! " said old Nokomis, 
" 'Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees ! " 

" Look ! " she said; " I see my father 
Standing lonely at his doorway, 
Beckoning to me from his wigwam 
In the land of the Dacotahs ! " 
"No, my child," said old Nokomis, 
" 'Tis the smoke that waves and beckons 1 " 

" Ah ! " she said, "the eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon me in the darkness, 
I can feel his icy fingers 
Clasping mine amid the darkness ! 
Hiawatha! Hiawa.tha!" 



THE FAMINE. 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 
Far away amid the forest, 
Miles away among the mountains, 
Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 
Heard the voice of Minnehaha 
Calling to him in the darkness, 
" Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 

Over snow-fields waste and pathless, 
Under snow-encumbered branches, 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, 
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing : 
" Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
Would that I had perished for you, 
Would that I were dead as you are ! 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! " 

And he rushed into the wigwam, 
Saw the old ISTokomis slowly 
Rocking to and fro and moaning, 
Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
Lying dead and cold before him, 
And his bursting heart within him 
Uttered such a cry of anguish, 
That the forest moaned and shuddered, 
That the very stars in heaven 
Shook and trembled with his anguish. 

Then he sat down, still and speechless, 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of Laughing Water, 
At those willing feet that never 
More would lightly run to meet him, 
Never more would lightly follow. 

With both hands his face he covered, 
Seven long days and nights he sat there, 
As if in a swoon he sat there, 
Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
Of the daylight or the darkness. 

Then they buried Minnehaha; 
In the snow a grave they made her, 
In the forest deep and darksome, 
Underneath the moaning hemlocks; 
Clothed her in her richest garments, 
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine, 
Covered her with snow, like ermine; 
Thus they buried Minnehaha. 

And at night a fire was lighted, 
On her grave four times was kindled, 
For her soul upon its journey 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 



449 



450 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

From his doorway Hiawatha 
Saw it burning in the forest, 
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; 
From his sleepless bed uprising, 
From the bed of Minnehaha, 
Stood and watched it at the doorway, 
That it might not be extinguished, 
Might not leave her in the darkness. 

" Farewell ! " said he, " Minnehaha I 
Farewell, my Laughing Water ! 
All my heart is buried with you, 
All my thoughts go onward with you I 
Come not back again to labour, 
Come not back again to suffer, 
Where the Famine and the Fever 
Wear the heart and waste the body, 
Soon my task will be completed, 
Soon your footsteps I shall follow 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the Land of the Hereafter ! >j> 



XXI. 

THE WHITE MAN'S FOOT. 

In his lodge beside a river, 
Close beside a frozen river, 
Sat an old man, sad and lonely. 
White his hair was as a snow-drift; 
Dull and low his fire was burning, 
And the old man shook and trembled, 
Folded in his Waubewy on, 
In his tattered white-skin wrapper, 
Hearing nothing but the tempest 
As it roared along the forest, 
Seeing nothing but the snow-storm 
As it whirled and hissed and drifted. 

All the coals were white with ashe&, 
And the fire was slowly dying, 
As a young man, walking lightly, 
At the open doorway entered. 
Red with blood of youth his cheeks were, 
Soft his eyes, as stars in Spring-time, 
Bound his forehead was with grasses, 
Bound and plumed with scented grasses; 
On his lips a smile of beauty, 



THE WHITE MAN'S FOOT. 451 

Filling all the lodge with sunshine, 
In his hand a bunch of blossoms, 
Filling all the lodge with sweetness. 

" Ah, nay son ! " exclaimed the old man, 
" Happy are my eyes to see you. 
Sit here on the mat beside me, 
Sit here by the dying embers, 
Let us pass the night together. 
Tell me of your strange adventures, 
Of the lands where you have travelled; 
I will tell you of my prowess, 
Of my many deeds Gf wonder." 

From his pouch he drew his peace-pipe, 
Very old and strangely fashioned; 
Made of red stone was the pipe-head, 
And the stem a reed with feathers; 
Filled the pipe with bark of willow, 
Placed a burning coal upon it, 
Gave it to his guest, the stranger, 
And began to speak in this wise : 

" When I blow my breath about me, 
When I breathe upon the landscape, 
Motionless are all the rivers, 
Hard as stone becomes the water ! " 

And the young man answered, smiling: 
" When I blow my breath about me, 
When I breathe upon the landscape, 
Flowers spring up o'er all the meadows, 
Singing, onward rush the rivers ! " 

" When I shake my hoary tresses," 
Said the old man, darkly frowning, 
" All the land with snow is covered; 
All the leaves from all the branches 
Fall and fade and die and wither, 
For I breathe, and lo ! they are not. 
From the waters and the marshes 
Rise the wild goose and the heron, 
Fly away to distant regions, 
For I speak, and lo ! they are not. 
And where'er my footsteps wander, 
All the wild beasts of the forest 
Hide themselves in holes and caverns, 
And the earth becomes as nintstone ! " 

u When I shake my flowing ringlets," 
Said the young man, softly laughing, 
" Showers of rain fall warm and welcome, 
Plants lift up their heads rejoicing, 
Back unto their lakes and marshes 
Come the wild goose and the heron, 



452 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow, 
Sing the blue-bird and the robin, 
And where'er my footsteps wander, 
All the meadows wave with blossoms, 
All the woodlands ring with music, 
All the trees are dark with foliage ! " 

While they spake, the night departed; 
From the distant realms of Wabun, 
From his shining lodge of silver, 
Like a warrior robed and painted, 
Came the sun, and said, " Behold me ! 
Gheezis, the great sun, behold me ! " 

Then the old man's tongue was speechless, 
And the air grew warm and pleasant, 
And upon the wigwam sweetly 
Sang the blue-bird and the robin, 
And the stream began to murmur, 
And a scent of growing grasses 
Through the lodge was gently wafted. 

And Segwun, the youthful stranger, 
More distinctly in the daylight 
Saw the icy face before him; 
It was Peboan, the Winter ! 

From his eyes the tears were flowing, 
As from melting lakes the streamlets, 
And his body shrunk and dwindled 
As the shouting sun ascended, 
Till into the air it faded, 
Till into the ground it vanished, 
And the young man saw before him, 
On the hearth-stone of the wigwam, 
Where the fire had smoked and smouldered, 
Saw the earliest flower of Spring-time, 
Saw the Beauty of the Spring-timo^ 
Saw the Miskodeed in blossom. 

Thus it was that in the Northland, 
After that unheard-of coldness, 
That intolerable Winter, 
Came the Spring with all its splendour, 
All its birds and all its blossoms, 
All its flowers and leaves and grasses. 

Sailing on the wind to northward, 
Flying in great flocks like arrows, 
Like huge arrows shot through heaven, 
Passed the swan, the Mahnahbezee, 
Speaking almost as a man speaks; 
And in long lines waving, bending 
Like a bow-string snapped asunder, 
Came the white goose, Waw-be-wawa ; 



THE WHITE MAN'S FOOT. 453 

And in pairs, or singly flying, 
JMahng the loon, with clangorous pinions, 
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa. 

In the thickets and the meadows 
Piped the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
On the summit of the lodges 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
In the covert of the pine-trees 
Cooed the pigeon, the Omemee, 
And the sorrowing Hiawatha, 
Speechless in his infinite sorrow, 
Heard their voices calling to him, 
Went forth from his gloomy doorway, 
Stood and gazed into the heaven, 
Gazed upon the earth and waters. 

From his wanderings far to eastward. 
From the regions of the morning, 
From the shining land of Wabun, 
Homeward now returned Iagoo, 
The great traveller, the great boaster, 
Full of new and strange adventures, 
Marvels many and many wonders. 

And the people of the village 
Listened to him as he told them 
Of his marvellous adventures, 
Laughing answered him in this wise : 
" Ugh ! it is indeed Iagoo ! 
No one else beholds such wonders!" 

He had seen, he said, a water 
Bigger than the Big-Sea- Water, 
Broader than the Gitche Gumee, 
Bitter so that none could drink it 1 
At each other looked the warriors, 
Looked the women at each other, 
Smiled, and said, " It cannot be so ! 
Kaw ! " they said, " it cannot be so ! ?J 

O'er it, said he, o'er this water 
Came a great canoe with pinions, 
A canoe with wings came flying, 
Bigger than a grove of pine-trees, 
Taller than the tallest tree-tops ! 
And the old men and the women 
Looked and tittered at each other; 
" Kaw ! " they said, " we don't believe it ! " 

From its mouth, he said, to greet him, 
Came Waywassimo, the lightning, 
Came the thunder, Annemeekee ! 
And the warriors and the women 



454 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Laughed aloud at poor Tagoo ; 

" Kaw ! " they said, " what tales you tell us I " 

In it, said he, came a people, 
In the great canoe with pinions 
Came, he said, a hundred warriors; 
Painted white were all their faces, 
And with hair their chins were covered ! 
And the warriors and the women 
Laughed and shouted in derision, 
Like the ravens on the tree-tops, 
Like the crows upon the hemlocks. 
u Kaw ! " they said, " what lies you tell us ! 
Do not think that we believe them ! " 

Only Hiawatha laughed not, 
But he gravely spake and answered 
To their jeering and their jesting: 
" True is all Iagoo tells us; 
I have seen it in a vision, 
Seen the great canoe with pinions, 
Seen the people with white faces, 
Seen the coming of this bearded 
People of the wooden vessel 
From the regions of the morning, 
From the shining land of Wabun. 

" Gitche Manito, the Mighty, 
The Great Spirit, the Creator, 
Sends them hither on his errand, 
Sends them to us with his message. 
Wheresoe'er they move, before them 
Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo, 
Swarms the bee, the honey-maker; 
Wheresoe'er they tread, beneath them 
Springs a flower unknown among us, 
Springs the White-man's Foot in blossom. 

" Let us welcome then the strangers, 
Hail them as our friends and brothers. 
And the heart's right hand of friendship 
Give them when they come to see us. 
Gitche Manito, the Mighty, 
Said this to me in my vision. 

" I beheld, too, in that vision 
All the secrets of the future, 
Of the distant days that shall be, 
I beheld the westward marches 
Of the unknown, crowded nations. 
All the land was full of people, 
Restless, struggling, toiling, striving, 
Speaking many tongues, yet feeling 
But one heart-beat in their bosoms. 



HIAWATHA S DEPARTURE. 465 

In the woodlands rang their axes, 
Smoked their towns in all the valleys. 
Over all the lakes and rivers 
Rushed their great canoes of thunder. 

" Then a darker, drearier vision 
Passed before me, vague and cloud-like; 
I beheld our nations scattered, 
All forgetful of my counsels, 
Weakened, warring with each other; 
Saw the remnants of our people 
Sweeping westward, wild and woful. 
Like the cloud-rack of a tempest, 
Like the withered leaves of autumn ! " 



XXII. 

Hiawatha's departure. 

By the shore of Gitche Gumee, 
By the shining Big-Sea- Water, 
At the doorway of his wigwam, 
In the pleasant Summer morning, 
Hiawatha stood and waited. 

All the air was full of freshness, 
All the earth was bright and joyous, 
And before him, through the sunshine, 
Westward toward the neighbouring forest 
Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, 
Passed the bees, the honey-makers, 
Burning, singing in the sunshine. 

Bright above him shone the heavens, 
Level spread the lake before him; 
From its bosom leaped the sturgeon, 
Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine; 
On its margin the great forest, 
Stood reflected in the water, 
Every tree-top had its shadow, 
Motionless beneath the water. 

From the brow of Hiawatha 
Gone was every trace of sorrow, 
As the fog from off the water, 
As the mist from off the meadow. 
With a smile of joy and triumph, 
With a look of exultation, 
As of one who in a vision 
Sees what is to be, but is not, 
Stood and waited Hiawatha. 

Toward the sun his hands were lifted, 
Both the palms spread out against it, 



456 THE SONG OP HIAWATHA. 

And between the parted ringers 
Fell the sunshine on his features, 
Flecked with light his naked shoulders, 
As it falls and Seeks an oak-tree 
Through the rifted leaves and branches. 

O'er the water floating, flying, 
Something in the hazy distance, 
Something in the mists of morning, 
Loomed and lifted from the water, 
Now seemed floating, now seemed flying, 
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer. 

Was it Shingebis the diver? 
Was it the pelican, the Shada? 
Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah? 
Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa, 
With the water dripping, flashing 
From its glossy neck and feathers? 

It was neither goose nor diver, 
Neither pelican nor heron, 
O'er the water floating, flying, 
Through the shining mist of morning, 
But a birch canoe with paddles, 
Rising, sinking on the water, 
Dripping, flashing in the sunshine; 
And within it came a people 
From the distant land of Wabun, 
From the farthest realms of morning 
Came the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet, 
He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face, 
With his guides and his companions. 

Arid the noble Hiawatha, 
With his hands aloft extended, 
Held aloft in sign of welcome, 
Waited, full of exultation, 
Till the birch canoe with paddles, 
Grated on the shining pebbles, 
Stranded on the sandy margin, 
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, 
With the cross upon his bosom, 
Landed on the sandy margin. 

Then the joyous Hiawatha 
Cried aloud and spake in this wise : 
" Beautiful is the sun, strangers, 
When you come so far to see us ! 
All our town in peace awaits you, 
All our doors stand open for you ; 
Yon shall enter all our wigwams, 
For the heart's right hand we give you. 

"Never bloomed the earth so gaily, 



HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE. 467 

Never shone the sun so brightly, 
As to-day they shine and blossom 
When you come so far to see us ! 
Never was our lake so tranquil, 
Nor so free from rocks and sand-bars ,• 
For your birch canoe in passing 
Has removed both rock and sand-bar ! 

" Never before had our tobacco 
Such a sweet and pleasant flavour, 
Never the broad leaves of our corn-fields 
Were so beautiful to look on, 
As they seem to us this morning, 
When you come so far to see us ! " 

And the Black-Robe chief made answer, 
Stammered in his speech a little, 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar : 
" Peace be with you, Hiawatha, 
Peace be with you and your people, 
Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon, 
Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary ! " 

Then the generous Hiawatha 
Led the strangers to his wigwam, 
Seated them on skins of bison, 
Seated them on skins of ermine. 
And the careful, old Nokomis 
Brought them food in bowls of bass-wood, 
Water brought in birchen dippers, 
And the calumet, the peace-pipe, 
Filled and lighted for their smoking. 

All the old men of the village, 
All the warriors of the nation, 
All the Jossakeeds, the prophets, 
The magicians, the Wabenos, 
And the medicine-men, the Medas, 
Came to bid the strangers welcome ; 
" It is well," they said, " brothers, 
That you come so far to see us ! " 

In a circle round the doorway, 
With their pipes they sat in silence, 
Waiting to behold the strangers, 
Waiting to receive their message ; 
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, 
From the wigwam came to greet them, 
Stammering in his speech a little, 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar ; 
" It is well," they said, " brother, 
That you come so far to see us ! " 

Then the Black-Robe chief, the prophet, 
Told his message to the peoplo, 



458 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

Told the purport of his mission, 
Told thern of the Virgin Mary, 
And her blessed Son, the Saviour, 
How in distant lands and ages 
He had lived on earth as we do ; 
How he fasted, prayed, and laboured; 
How the Jews, the tribe accursed, 
Mocked him, scourged him, crucified him; 
How he rose from where they laid him, 
Walked again with his disciples, 
And ascended into heaven. 

And the chiefs made answer, saying : 
(< We have listened t6 your message, 
We have heard your words of wisdom, 
We will think on what you tell us. 
It is well for us, brothers, 
That you come so far to see us ! " 

Then they rose up and departed 
Each one homeward to his wigwam, 
To the young men and the women 
Told the story of the strangers 
Whom the Master of Life had sent them 
From the shining land of Wabun. 

Heavy with the heat and silence 
Grew the afternoon of Summer; 
With a drowsy sound the forest 
Whispered round the sultry wigwam, 
With a sound of sleep the water 
Rippled on the beach below it; 
From the corn-fields shrill and ceaseless 
Sang the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena ; 
And the guests of Hiawatha, 
Weary with the heat of Summer, 
Slumbered in the sultry wigwam. 

Slowly o'er the simmering landscape 
Fell the evening's dusk and coolness, 
And the long and level sunbeams 
Shot their spears into the forest, 
Breaking through its shields of shadow, 
Rushed into each secret ambush, 
Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow; 
Still the guests of Hiawatha 
Slumbered in the silent wigwam. 

From his place rose Hiawatha, 
Bade farewell to old Nokomis, 
Spake in whispers, spake in this wise, 
Did not wake the guests that slumbered: 

" I am going, Nokomis, 
On a long and distant journey, 




And the evening smi descending 
Set the cloud* on fire with rerlues , 
Burn'd the broad sky, like a pra ri 
heft upon t ie level watei 
UiMJ loin? track and trail of splendo 



HIAWATHA S DEPARTURE. 

To the portals of the Sunset, 
To the regions of the home-wind, 
Of the Northwest wind, Keewaydin. 
But these guests I leave behind me, 
In your watch and ward I leave them; 
See that never harm comes near them, 
See that never fear molests them, 
Never danger nor suspicion, 
Never want of food or shelter, 
In the lodge of Hiawatha ! " 

Forth into the village went he, 
Bade farewell to all the warriors, 
Bade farewell to all the young men, 
Spake persuading, spake in this wise : 

" I am going, my people, 
On a long and distant journey; 
Many moons and many winters 
Will have come, and will have vanished, 
Ere I come again to see you. 
But ray guests I leave behind me ; 
Listen to their words of wisdom, 
Listen to the truth they tell you, 
For the Master of Life hath sent them 
From the land of light and morning ! " 

On the shore stood Hiawatha, 
Turned and waved his hand at parting; 
On the clear and luminous water 
Launched his birch canoe for sailing, 
From the pebbles of the margin 
Shoved it forth into the water; 
Whispered to it, " Westward ! westward ! " 
And with speed it darted forward. 

And the evening sun descending 
Set the clouds on fire with redness, 
Burned the broad sky, like a prairie, 
Left upon the level water 
One long track and trail of splendour, 
Down whose stream, as down a river, 
Westward, westward Hiawatha 
Sailed into the fiery sunset, 
Sailed into the purple vapours, 
Sailed into the dusk of evening. 

And the people from the margin 
Watched him floating, rising, sinking, 
Till the birch canoe seemed lifted 
High into that sea of splendour, 
Till it sank into the vapours 
Like the new moon slowly, slowly 
Sinking in the purple distance. 



459 



460 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

And they said, u Farewell for ever ! " 
Said, " Farewell, Hiawatha!" 
And the forests, dark and lonely, 
Moved through all their depths of darkness, 
Sighed, " Farewell, Hiawatha !" 
And the waves upon the margin 
Rising, rippling on the pebbles, 
Sobbed, "Farewell, Hiawatha!" 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her haunts among the fen-lands, 
Screamed, " Farewell, Hiawatha ! " 

Thus departed Hiawatha, 
Hiawatha the Beloved, 
In the glory of the sunset, 
In the purple mists of evening, 
To the regions of the home-wind, 
Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin 
To the islands of the Blessed, 
To the kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the land of the Hereafter i 



VOCABULARY. 461 


VOCABULARY. 


Adjidau'mo, the red squirrel. 


Keeway'din, the Northwest Wind; the 


Akdeek', the reindeer. 


Home-wind. 


Akkose'win, fever. 


Kena'beek, a serpent. 


Akmeek', the beaver. 


Keiieu', the great war-eagle. 


Algon'quin, Ojibway. 


Keno'zha, the pickerel. 


Annemee'kee, the thunder. 


Ko'ko-ko'ho, the oiol. 


Apuk'wa, « bulrush. 


Kuntasoo', the Game of Plum-stones. 


Baim-wa'wa, the sound of the thunder. 


Kwa'sind, the Strong Man. 


Bemak'gut, the grape-vine. 


Kwo-ne'-she, or Dush-kwo-ne'-she, the , 


Be'na, the pheasant. 


dragon-fly. 


Big-Sea-Water, Lake Superior. 


Mahnahbe'zee, the swan. 


Bukada'win, famine. 


Mahng, the loon. 


tCheemaun', a bii ch canoe. 


Mahn-go-tay'see, loon-hearted, brave. 


Chetowaik', the plover. 


Mahnomo'nee, wild rice. 


Ckibia'bos, a musician; friend of Hia- 


Ma'ma, the woodpecker. 


watha; ruler in the Land of Spirits. 


Maskeno'zha, the pike. 


Dakin'da, the bidl-frog. 


Me'da, a 'medicine-man. 


Dush-kwo-ne'-she, or Kwo-ne'-ske, 


Meenah'ga, the blueberry. 


the dragon-fly. 


Megissog'won, the great Pearl-Feather, 


Esa, shame upon you. 


a magician, and the Manito of 


Ewa-yea', lullaby. 


Wealth. 


Ghee'zis, the sun. 


Meshinau'wa, a pipe-bearer. 


Gitch'e Gu'mee, the Big-Sea-Wazer, 


Minjekah'wun, Hiawatha's mittens. 


Lake SupeHor. 


Minnehaha, Laughing Water; a water- 


Gitch'e Man'ito, the Great Spirit, the 


fall on a stream running into the 


Master of Life. 


Mississippi, betiveen Fort Snelling 


Guslikewau', the darkness. 


and the Falls of St Anthony. 


Hiawa'tha, the Wise Man, the Teacher; 


Minneha'ha, Laughing Water; wife of 


son of Mudjekeewis, the West-Wind, 


Hiavmtha. 


and Wenonah, daughter of Noko- 


Minne-wa'wa, a pleasant sound, as of 


mis. 


the wind in the trees. 


la'goo, a great boaster and story-teller. 


Mishe-Mo'kwa, the Great Bear. 


Inin'ewug, men, or pawns in the Game 


Mishe-Nah'ma, the Great Sturgeon. 


of the Bowl. 


Miskodeed', tlie Spring-Beauty, the 


Ishkoodah , ,./zrg/ a comet. 


Ciaytonia Virginica. 


Jee'bi, a ghost, a spirit. 


Monda'min, Indian corn. 


Joss'akeed, a 'prophet. 


Moon of Bright Nights, April. 


Kabibonok'ka, the North- Wind. 


Moon of Leaves, May. 


Kagh, the hedgehog. 


Moon of Strawberries, June. 


Ka'go, do not. 


Moon of the Falling Leaves, September. 


Kakgahgee', the raven. 


Moon of Snow-Shoes, November. 


Kaw, no. 


MudjekeeVis, the West-Wind; father 


Kaween', no indeed. 


of Hiawatha. 


Kayoshk', the sea-gi.dX. 


Mudway-aush'ka, sound of waves on a ! 


K.ee'go, a fish. 


shoie. 



2G 



462 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


Musbkoda'sa, the grouse. 


Segwmi', Spring. 


Nab'ma, the sturgeon. 


Sha'da, the pelican. 


Nab'ma-wusk, spearmint. 


Sbabbo'min, the gooseberry. 


Na'gow Wudj'oo, the Sand Dunes of 


Shali-shah, long ago. 


Lake Superior. 


Sbaugoda'ya, a coward. 


Nee-ba-naw'-baigs, water-spirits. 


Sbawgasbee', the craiv-fish. 


Nenemoo'sba, siveetheart. 


Sbawonda'see, the South-Wind,. 


Nepali' win, sleep. 


Sbaw'sbaw, the swallow. 


"Noko'mis, a grandmother; mother of 


Sbesb'ebwug, ducks; pieces in Vie 


Wenonah. 


Game of the Boivl. 


No'sa, my father. 


Sbin'gebis, the diver, or greebe. 


Nush/ka, look! look! 


Showain'-neme'sbin, pity me. 


Odab'min, the strawberry. 


Shub-sbub'-gab, the blue heron. 


Okabab'wis, the fresh-water herring. 


Soan-ge-ta'ba, strong-hearted. 


Ome'me, the pigeon. 


Subbeka'sbe, the spider. 


Ona'gon, a bowl. 


Sugge'ma, the mosquito. 


Onaway', awake. 


To'tem, family coat-of-arms. 


Ope'cbee, the robin. 


Ugb, yes. 


Osse'o, Son of the Evening Star. 


Ugudwasb', the sun-fish. 


Owais'sa, the blv£-bird. 


Unktabee', the God of Water. 


Oweenee', wife of Osseo. 


Wabas'so, the rabbit; the North. 


Ozawa'beek, a round piece of brass or 


Wabe'no, a magician, a juggler. 


copper in the Game of the Bowl. 


Wabe'no-wusk, yarrow. 


Pab-puk-kee'na, the grasshopper. 


Wa'bun, the East-Wind. 


I Pau'guk, death. 


Wa'bmi An'mmg, the Star of the East, 


j Pau-Puk-Kee'wis, the handsome Yena- 


the Morning Star. 


dizze, the Storm Fool. 


"Wabono'win, a cry of lamentation. 


5 Pauwa'ting, Saut Sainte Marie. 


Wab-wab-tay'see, the fire-fly. 


1 Pe'boan, Winter. 


Wampum, beads of shell. 


Pemi'can, meat of the deer or bvffaio 


Waubewy'on, a white skin wrapper. 


dried and pounded. 


Wa'wa, the wild-goose. 


j Pezbekee', the bison. 


*\Yaw-beek, a rock. 


1 Pisbnekub', the brant. 


Waw-be-wa'wa, the white goose. 


j Pone'mab, hereafter. 


Wawonais'Pa, the whippoonvill. 


Pugasaing', Game of the Bowl. 


Way-muk-kwa'na, the" caterpillar. 


Puggawau'guu, a tvar-club. 


Wen'digoes, giants. 


Puk-Wudj'ies, little wild men of the 


Weno'nab, Hiawatha's mother, daugh 


woods; pigmies. 


ter of Nokomis. 


Sab-sab-je'-wnn, rapids. 


Yena&iz'ze, an idler and gambler; ai 


Sab'wa, the per/A 
\ 


Indian dandy 



THE COURTSHIP OP MILES STANDISH. 



MILES STANDISH. 



In tlie Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, 
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling, 
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather, 
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain. 
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and 

pausing 
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare, 
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, — 
Cutlass and corslet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus, 
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence, 
■While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and 

matchlock. 
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic, 
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of 

iron ; 
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already 
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November. 
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and household com- 
panion, 
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window ; 
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion, 
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the 

captives 
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles but Angels.' 
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the May Flower. 

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting, 
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of 

Plymouth. 
" Look at these arms," he said, a the warlike weapons that hang here 
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection ! 
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders ; this 

breastplate, 



434 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Well I remember the day I once saved my life in a skirmish ; 

Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet 

Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero. 

Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish 

Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish 

morasses." 
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his 

writing : 
u Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet; 
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon ! " 
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling : 
" See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging ; 
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others. 
Serve yourself, would you be well ^served, is an excellent adage ; 
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn. 
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army, 
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock, 
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage, 
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers ! " 
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams 
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment. 
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued : 
" Look ! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted 
High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose, 
Steady, straight-forward) and strong, with irresistible logic, 
Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen. 
Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians ; 
Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better- 
Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow, 
Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon ! " 

Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the land- 
scape, 

Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapoury breath of the east-wind ; 

Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean, 

Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine. 

Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape, 

Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with 
emotion, 

Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded ; 

" Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish ; 

Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for rne by the wayside ! 

She was the first to die of all who came in the May Flower ! 

Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there, 

Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people, 

Lest they should count them and see how many already have 
perished ! " 

Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was 
thoughtful. 



LOYE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



465 



Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them 
Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding ; 
BarifiVs Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Caesar, 
Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London, 
And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible. 
Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful 
Which of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort, 
"Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the 

Romans, 
Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians. 
Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman, 
Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence 
Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks thick on the 

margin, 
Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest. 
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, 
Busily writing epistles important, to go by the May Flower, 
Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing ' 
Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter, 
Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla, 
Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla ! 



II. 

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, 

Or an occasional sigh from the labouring heart of the Captain, 

Beading the marvellous words and achievements of Julius Caesar. 

After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm down- 
wards, 

Heavily on the page : " A wonderful man was this Caesar ! 

You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a fellow 

Who could both write and fight, and in both was equally skilful ! 

Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely, the youth- 
ful: 

" Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his pen and his 
weapons. 

Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he could dictate 

Seven letters at once, at the same time writing his memoirs." 

" Truly," continued the Captain, not heeding or hearing the other, 

* Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Caesar ! 

Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village, 

Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right when he said it. 

Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after; 

Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered; 

He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded ; 

Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus ! 

Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders, 

When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too, 



466 THE COUETSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely together 
There was no room for their swords ? Why, he seized a shield from 

a soldier, 
Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and commanded the 

captains, 
Calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns ; 
Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons ; 
So he won the day, the battle of something-or-other. 
That 's what I always say ; if you wish a thing to be well done, 
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others ! " 

All was silent again ; the Captain continued his reading. 
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the strip 

ling 
Writing epistles important to go next day by the May Flower, 
Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla: 
Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla, 
Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret, 
Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla ! 
Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover, 
Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket, 
Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Ply- 
mouth : 
" When you have finished your work, I have something important 

to tell you. 
Be not however in haste ; I can wait ; I shall not be impatient !" 
Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters, 
Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention : 
" Speak ; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen, 
Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish/' 
Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his 

phrases : 
u 'Tis not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures. 
This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it ; 
Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it. 
Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary ; 
Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship. 
Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla. 
She is alone in the world ; her father and mother and brother 
Died in the winter together ; I saw her going and coming, 
Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying, 
Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever 
There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven, 
Two have I seen and known ; and the angel whose name is Priscilla 
Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned. 
Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it, 
Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part. 
Go to the damsel Priscilla. the loveliest maiden of Plymouth, 
Say that a blunt, old Captain, a man not of words but of actions, 



THE LOVEE/S ERKAXD. 467 

Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. 
Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning ; 
I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases. 
You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language, 
Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of 

lovers, 
Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden.'* 

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, taciturn strip- 

ling, 
All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered, 
Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness, 
Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom, 
Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning, 
Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered : 
" Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it ; 
If you would have it well done, — I am only repeating your maxim,' — 
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others ! " 
But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his purpose, 
Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth : 
" Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it ; 
But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing. 
Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases. 
I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender, 
But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not. 
I 'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon, 
But of a thundering 'No!' point-blank from the mouth of a 

woman, 
That I confess I 'm afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it ! 
So you must grant my request, for you are an elegant scholar, 
Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of phrases." 
Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and doubtful, 
Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he added : 
" Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is the feeling that 

prompts me ; 
Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friendship ! " 
Then made answer John Alden : " The name of friendship is sacred; 
What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny 

you!" 
So the strong will prevailed, subduing and moulding the gentler, 
Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand. 

III. 

THE LOVER'S ERRAND. 

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand, 
Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest, 
Into the tranquil woods, where blue-birds and robins were building 
Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of verdure, 



468 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom. 

All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict, 

Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous 

impulse. 
Tc and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing, 
As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel, 
Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the ocean ! 
u Must I relinquish it all," he cried with a wild lamentation, 
" Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the illusion ? 
Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshipped in silence? 
Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and the shadow 
Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New England ? 
Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption 
Kise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion ; 
Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions of Satan. 
All is clear to me now ; I feel it, I see it distinctly ! 
This is the hand of the Lord ; it is laid upon me in anger, 
For I have followed too much the heart's desires and devices, 
Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols of Baal. 
This is the cross I must bear; the sin and the swift retribution." 

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand ; 
Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled over pebble and 

shallow, 
Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers blooming around him, 
Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonderful sweetness, 
Children lost in the woods, and covered with leaves in their slumber. 
" Puritan flowers," he said, " and the type of Puritan maidens, 
Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of Priscilla ! 
So I will take them to her ; to Priscilla the May-flower of Plymouth, 
Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift will I take them; 
Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and wither and perish, 
Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the giver." 
So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand ; 
Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean, 
Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless breath of the east- 
wind ; 
Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow ; 
Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla 
Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem, 
Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist, 
Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many. 
Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden 
Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift 
Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle, 
While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its 

motion. 
Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm-book of Ainsworth, 
Frinted in Amsterdam, the words and the music together, 



THE LOVERS ERRAND. 469 

Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall of a churchyard, 

Darkened and overhung by the running vine of the verses. 

Such was the book from whose pages she sang the old Puritan 

anthem, 
She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest, 
Making the humble house and the modest apparel of horns-spun 
Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the wealth of her being ! 
Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and cold and relentless, 
Thoughts of what might have been, and the weight and woe of his 

errand ; 
All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that had vanished, 
All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless mansion, 
Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful faces. 
Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he said it, 
" Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough look backwards ; 
Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers of life to its foun- 
tains, 
Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead and the hearths of the 

living, 
It is the will of the Lord ; and his mercy endureth for ever ! " 

So he entered the house: and the hum of the wheel and the 
singing ■ 
Suddenly ceased ; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold, 
Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome, 
Saying, " I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage; 
For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning." 
Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been 

mingled 
Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden, 
Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flowers for an answer, 
Finding no words for his thought. He remembered that day in 

the winter, 
After the first great snow, when he broke a path from the village, 
Reeling and plunging along through the drifts that encumbered the 

doorway, 
Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered the house, and 

Priscilla 
Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat by the fireside, 
Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of her in the snow- 
storm. 
Had he but spoken then ! perhaps not in vain had he spoken ; 
Now it was all too late ; the golden moment had vanished ! 
So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flowers for an answer. 

Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the beautiful 
Spring-time, 
Talked of their friends at home, and the May Flower that sailed on 
the morrow. 



470 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDTSfl. 

" I have been thinking all day," said gently the Puritan maiden, 
"Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedge-rows of 

England, — 
They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden ; 
Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet, 
Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighbours 
Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip together, 
And, at the end of the street, the village church, with the ivy 
Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet graves hi the churchyard. 
Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me my religion ; 
Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself back in Old England. 
You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it : I almost 
Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched." 
Thereupon answered the youth : — " Indeed I do not condemn you ; 
Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in this terrible winter. 
Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on ; 
So I have come to you now, w T ith an offer and proffer of marriage 
Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Ply- 
mouth!" 

Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters, — 
Did not embellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases, 
But came straight to the point, and blurted it out like a schoolboy; 
Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly. 
Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maiden 
Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated with wonder, 
Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her and rendered her 

speechless ; 
Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence : 
" If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, 
Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to w t oo me ? 
If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning ! 
Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter, 
Making it worse as he w r ent, by saying the Captain was busy, — 
Had no time for such things; — such things! the words grating 

harshly « 

Fell on the ear of Priscilla ; and swift as a flash she made answer : 
" Has he no time for such things, as you call it, before he is married, 
Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding ? 
That is the way with you men ; you don't understand us, you cannot. 
When you have made up your minds, after thinking of this one and 

that one, 
Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing one with another, 
Then you make known your desire, with abrupt and sudden avowal, 
And are offended and hurt, and indignant perhaps, that a woman 
Does not respond at once to a love that she never suspected, 
Does not attain at a bound the height to which you have been 

climbing. * 

This is not right nor just : for surely a woman's affection 



JOHN ALDECT. 471 

Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for only the asking. 
When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shews it. 
Had he but waited awhile, had he only shewed that he loved me, 
Even this Captain of yours — who knows ? — at last might have won 

me, 
Old and rough as he is ; but now it never can happen." 

Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla, 
Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding ; 
Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his battles in Flanders, 
How with the people of God he had chosen to suffer affliction, 
How, in return for his zeal, they had made him Captain of Plymouth ; 
He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly 
Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in Lancashire, England, 
Who was the son of Kalph, and the grandson of Thurston de 

Standish ; 

Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely defrauded, 
Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a cock argent 
Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon. 
He was a man of honour, of noble and generous nature ; 
Though he was rough, he was kindly; she knew how during the 

winter 
He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle as woman's ; 
Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, and headstrong, 
Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and placable always, 
Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was little of stature ; 
For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, courageous ; 
Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in England, 
Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish ! 

But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent lan- 
guage, 
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival, 
Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes over-running with laughter, 
Said, in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, 
John ? " 

IV. 

JOHN ALDEN. 

Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered, 
"Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the sea-side ; 
Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head to the east-wind, 
Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever within him. 
Slowly as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical splendours, 
Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the Apostle, 
So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and sapphire, 
Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets uplifted 
Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who measured the city. 



472 THE COUETSHTP OF MILES STANDISH. 

" Welcome, wind of the East ! " he exclaimed in his wild exal- 
tation, 
"Welcome, wind of the East, from the caves of the misty 

Atlantic ! 
Blowing o'er fields of dulse, and measureless meadows of sea-grass, 
Blowing o'er rocky wastes, and the grottos and gardens of ocean ! 
Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, and wrap me 
Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever within me ! " 

Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning and tossing, 
Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of the sea-shore. 
Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions con- 
tending ; 

Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded and bleeding, 
Passionate cries of desire, and importunate pleadings of duty ! 
" Is it my fault," he said, " that the maiden has chosen between us ? 
Is it my fault that he failed, — my fault that I am the victor ? " 
Then within him there thundered a voice, like the voice of the 

Prophet : 

* It hath displeased the Lord ! " — and he thought of David's trans- 
gression, 
Bathsheba's beautiful face, and his friend in the front of the 

battle ! 

Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and self-condemnation, 
Overwhelmed him at once ; and he cried in the deepest contrition : 
u It hath displeased the Lord ! It is the temptation of Satan ! " 

Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beheld there 
Dimly the shadowy form of the May Flower riding at anchor, 
Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the morrow ; 
Heard the voices of men through the mist, the rattle of cordage 
Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the sailors' "Ay. 

ay, Sir!" 

Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping air of the twilight. 
Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared at the vessel, 
Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom, 
Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow. 
" Yes, it is plain to me now/' he murmured ; " the hand of the 

Lord is 
Leading me out of the land of darkness, the bondage of error, 
Through the sea, that shall lif t the walls of its waters around me, 
Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts that pursue ma 
Back will I go o'er the ocean, this dreary land will abandon, 
Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has offended. 
Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard in England, 
Close by my mother's side, and among the dust of my kindred ; 
Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonour 1 
Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber 
With me my secret shall lie. like a buried jewel that glimmers 



JOHN AU)EN\ 473 

Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and dark- 
ness, — 
Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter ! " 

Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of his strong 

resolution, 
Leaving behind him. the shore, and hurried along in the twilight, 
Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent and sombre, 
Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth, 
Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of the evening. 
Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable Captain 
Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages of Caesar, 
Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant or Flanders. 
" Long have you been on your errand," he said with a cheery 

demeanour, 

Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not the issue. 
* Not far off is the house, although the woods are between us ; 
But you have lingered so long, that while you were going and coming 
I have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished a city. 
Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that has happened." 

Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure, 
From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened; 
How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship, 
Only smoothing a little, and softening down her refusal. 
But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken, 
"Words so tender and cruel : " Why don't you speak for yourself, 

John?" 
Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till 

his armour 
Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen. 
All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion, 
Even as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction around it. 
"Wildly he shouted, and loud : " John Alden ! you have betrayed me ! 
Me, Miles Standish, your friend ! have supplanted, defrauded, 

betrayed me ! 
One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart of Wat Tyler; 
Who shall prevent me from running my own through the heart of a 

traitor ? 
Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason to friendship ! 
You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a 

brother; 
You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my cup, to whose 

keeping 
I have entrusted my honour, my thoughts the most sacred and 

secret, — 
You too, Brutus ! ah woe to the name of friendship hereafter ! 
Brutus was Csesar's friend, and you were mine, but henceforward 
Let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred i M 



474 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in tha| 

chamber, 
Chafing and choking with rage ; like cords were the veins on his 

temples. 
But incthe midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway, 
Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance, 
Rumours of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians ! 
Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or 

parley, 
Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron, 
Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed, 
Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbard 
Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance. 
Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness, 
Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult, 
Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his hands as in childhood, 
Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret. 

Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the 
council, 
Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming ; 
Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment, 
Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven, 
Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth. 
God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting, 
Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation ; 
So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people ! 
Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant, 
Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect ; 
While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible, 
Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland, 
And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered, 
Filled, like a quiver, with arrows; a signal and challenge of warfare, 
Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of de- 
fiance. 
This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating 
What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace, 
Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting; 
One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder, 
Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted, 
Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behaviour ! 
Then outspake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth, 
Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger, 
" W T hat ! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses ? 
Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer planted 
There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils ? 
Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savage 
Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the month of tha 
cannon I " 



THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER. 475 

Tkereup Dn answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth, 

Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language : 

" Not so thought Saint Paul, nor yet the other Apostles ; 

Not from the cannon's mouth were the tongues of fire they spake 

with!" 
But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain, 
"Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing : 
" Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth. 
War is a terrible trade ; but in the cause that is righteous, 
Sweet is the smell of powder ; and thus I answer the challenge ! " 

Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a sudden, contemptuous 
gesture, 
Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets 
Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage, 
Saying, in thundering tones : " Here, take it ! this is your answer ! " 
Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage, 
Bearing the serpent's skin, and seeming himself like a serpent, 
"Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest. 



THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER. 

Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the mea- 
dows, 
There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth; 
Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative, a Forward ! " 
Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then silence. 
Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the village. 
Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous army, 
Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men, 
Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage. 
Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David; 
Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible, — 
Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines. 
Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning ; 
Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing, 
Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated. 

Many a mile had they marched, when at length the village of 
Plymouth 

Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its manifold labours. 

Sweet was the air and soft; and slowly the smoke from the chim- 
neys 

Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily eastward ; 

Men came forth from the doors, and paused and talked of the wea- 
ther, 

Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing fair for the May 
Flower : 



476 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Talked of their Captain's departure, and all the dangers that me- 
naced, 
He being gone, the town, and what should be done in his absence. 
Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of women 
Consecrated with hymns the common cares of the household. 
Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows rejoiced at his coming; 
Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the mountains ; 
Beautiful on the sails of the May Flower riding at anchor, 
Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms of the winter. 
Loosely against her masts was hanging and napping her canvas, 
.Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of the sailors. 
Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the ocean, 
Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward ; anon rang 
Loud over field and forest the cannon's roar, and the echoes 
Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of departure ! 
Ah ! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of the people ! 
Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read from the Bible, 
Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fervent entreaty! 
Then from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims of Ply- 
mouth, 
Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the sea-shore, 
Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the May Flower, 
Homeward bound o'er the sea, and leaving them here in the desert. 

Foremost among them was Alden. All night he had lain without 

slumber, 
- Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest of his fever. 
He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back late from the council, 
Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and murmur, 
Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it sounded like 

swearing. 
Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a moment in silence; 
Then he had turned away, and said : " I will not awake him ; 
Let him sle^p on, it is best ; for what is the use of more talking ! " 
Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself down on his 

pallet, 
Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break of the morning, — 
Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in his campaigns in 

Flanders. — 
Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for action. 
But with the dawn he arose ; in the twilight Alden beheld him 
Put on his corslet of steel, and all the rest of his armour, 
Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of Damascus, 
Take from the corner his musket, and so stride out of the chamber. 
Often the heart of the youth had burned and yearned to embrace 

him, 
Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for pardon ; 
All the old friendship came back, with its tender and grateful 

emotions ; 



THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER. 477 

But his pride overmastered the nobler nature within hini, — 
Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burning fire of the insult. ! 
So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but spake not, 
Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, and he spake not! 
Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the people were saying, I 
Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and Kichard and Gilbert, ! 
Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading of Scripture, 
And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down to the sea-shore, 
Down to the Plymouth Kock, that had been to their feet as a door- 
step 
Into a world unknown, — the corner-stone of a nation ! 

There with his boat was the Master, already a little impatient 
Lest he should lose the tide, or the wind might shift to the eastward, 
Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odour of ocean about him, 
Speaking with this one and that, and cramming letters and parcels 
Into his pockets capacious, and messages mingled together 
Into his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly bewildered. 
Nearer the boat stood Alden with one foot placed on the gunwale, 
One still firm on the rock, and talking at times with the sailors, 
Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager for starting. 
He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his anguish, 
Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than keel is or canvas, 
Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would rise and pursue 

him. 
But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of Priscilla 
Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all that was passing. 
Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his intention, 
Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring, and patient, 
That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from its purpose, 
As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction. 
Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mysterious instincts ! 
Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are moments, 
Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall adamantine ! 
" Here I remain ! " he exclaimed, as he looked at the heavens above j 

him, 
Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the mist and the | 

madness, 
Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was staggering headlong. 
" Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether above me, 
Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning over the ocean. 
There is another hand, that is not so spectral and ghost-like, 
Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for protection- 
Float, hand of cloud, and vanish away in the ether ! 
Poll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt me ; I heed not 
Either your warning or menace, or any omen of evil ! 
There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so wholesome, 
As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her foot- 
steps. 

2H 



478 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible presence 
Hover around her for ever, protecting, supporting her weakness; 
Ye&! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the land- 
ing, 
So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving ! " 

Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air and important, 
Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and the weather, 
Walked about on the sands ; and the people crowded around him 
Saying a few last words, and enforcing his careful remembrance. 
Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were grasping a tiller, 
Into the. boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to his vessel, 
Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and flurry, 
Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness and sorrow, 
Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing but Gospel ! 
Lost in the sound of the oars was the last farewell of the Pilgrims 
strong hearts and true ! not one went back in the May Flower ! 
No, not opq looked back, who had set his hand to this ploughing ! 

Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the sailors 
Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous anchor. 
Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west-wind, 
Blowing steady and strong; and the May Flower sailed from the 

harbour, 

Hounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to the southward, 
Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First Encounter, 
Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open Atlantic, 
Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the Pilgrims. 

Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel, 
Much endeared to them all, as something living and human ; 
Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision prophetic, 
Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth 
Said, " Let us pray 1" and they prayed, and thanked the Lord and 

took courage. 
Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base/rf the rock, and above 

them 
Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death, and their 

kindred 
Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that 

they uttered. 
Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the ocean 
Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard ; 
Buried beneath it lay for ever all hope of escaping. 
Lo ! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of an Indian, 
Watching them from the hill ; but while they spake with each other, 
Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, " Look I " he had 

vanished. 
So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered a little. 



PEISdLLA. 479 

Musing alone on the shore and watching the wash of the "billows 
Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of the sunshine. 
Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the waters. 

VI. 

PRISCILLA. 

Thus tor a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean, 

Thinking of many things, and most of all of Priscilla ; 

And as if thought had the power to draw to itself, like the loadstone, 

Whatsoever it touches, by subtile laws of its nature, 

Lo ! as he turned to depart, Priscilla was standing beside him. 

" Are you so much offended, you will not speak to me?" said she. 
" Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when you were pleading 
Warmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive and wayward, 
Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful perhaps of decorum ? 
Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so frankly, for saying 
What I ought not to have said, yet now I can never unsay it ; 
For there are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion, 
That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble 
Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, 
Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together. 
Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak of Miles Standish, 
Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects into virtues, 
Praising his courage and strength, and even his fighting in Flanders, 
As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of a woman, 
Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalting your hero. 
Theiefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible impulsa 
You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the friendship between 

us, 
Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily broken ! " 
Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the friend of Miles 

Standish : 
" I was not angry with you, with myself alone I was angry, 
Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my keeping." 
"No I" interrupted the maiden, with answer prompt and decisive; 
"No ; you were angry with me, for speaking so frankly and freely. 
It was wrong, I acknowledge ; for it is the fate of a woman 
Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, 
Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. 
Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women 
Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers 
Running through caverns of darkness, unheard, unseen, and un- 
fruitful, 
Chafing their channels of stone, with endless and profitless murmurs." 
Thereupon answered John Alden, the young man, the lover of 

women ; 
" Heaven torbid it, Priscilla ; and truly they seem to me always 



480 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

More like the beautiful rivers that watered the garden of Eden, 
More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of Havilah flowing, 
Filling the land with delight, and memories sweet of the garden !" 
" Ah, by these words, I can see," again interrupted the maiden, 
" How very little you prize me, or care for what I am saying. 
When from the depths of my heart, in pain and with secret mis- 
giving, 
Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only and kindness, 
Straightway you take up my words, that are plain and direct and in 

earnest, 
Turn them away from their meaning, and answer with flattering 

phrases. 
This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best that is in you ; 
For I know and esteem you, and feel that your nature is noble, 
Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level. 
Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it perhaps the more 

keenly 
If you say aught that implies I am only as one among many, ' 
If you make use of those common and complimentary phrases 
Most men think so fine, in dealing and speaking with women, 
But which women reject as insipid, if not as insulting." 

Mute and amazed was Alden ; and listened and looked at Priscilla, 
Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty. 
He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the cause of another, 
Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking in vain for an 

answer. 
So the maiden went on, and little divined or imagined 
What was at work in his heart, that made him so awkward and 

speechless. 
" Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what we think, and in all 

things 
Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred professions of friend- 
ship. 
It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed to declare it : 
I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak with you always. 
So I was hurt at your words, and a little affronted to hear you 
Urge me to marry your friend, though he were the Captain Miles 

Standish. * 

For I must tell you the truth : much more to me is your friendship 
Than all the love he could give, were he twice the hero you think 

him." 
Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who eagerly grasped it, 
Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching and bleeding so 

sorely, 
Healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, with a voice full of 

feeling : 

" Yes, we must ever be friends ; and of all who offer you friendship 
Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest 1" 



THE MAUCH OF MILES STANDISH. 481 

Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail ®f the May Flower, 
Distant, but still in sight, and sinking below the horizon, 
Homeward together they walked, with a strange, indefinite feeling, 
That all the rest had departed and left them alone in the desert. 
But, as they w r ent through, the fields in the blessing and smile of the 

sunshine, 
Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very archly : 
" Xow that our terrible Captain has gone in pursuit of the Indians, 
Where he is happier far than he would be commanding a household, 
You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that happened between 

you, 
When you returned last night, and said how ungrateful you found 

me." 
Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her the whole of the 

story, — 
Told her his own despair, and the direful wrath of Miles Standish. 
Whereat the maiden smiled, and said between laughing and earnest, 
* He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a moment ! 
But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how much he had suf- 
fered, — 
How he had even determined to sail that day in the May Flower, 
And had remained for her sake, on hearing the dangers that threat- 
ened, — 
All her manner was changed, and she said with a faltering accent, 
" Truly I thank you for this : how good you have been to me always ! " 

Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusalem journeys, 
Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward, 
Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of .contrition; 
Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever advancing, 
Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land of his longings, 
Urged by the fervour of love, and withheld by remorseful misgivings. 

VIL 

THE MAECH OF MILES STANDISH. 

Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily 

northward, 
Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend of the sea- 
shore, 
All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his anger 
Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous odour of powder 
Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the scents of the forest. 
Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved his discomfort ; 
He who was used to success, and to easy victories always, 
Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn by a maiden, 
Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend whom most he had 

trusted ! 
Ah ! 't was too much to be borne, and he fretted and chafed in his 
armour I 



482 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

" I alone am to blame/' he muttered, " for mine was the folly. 
What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and gray in the harness, 
Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens ? 
'T was but a dream, — let it pass, — -let it vanish like so many others ! 
What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless ; 
Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and henceforward 
Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers ! " 
Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort, 
While he was marching by day or lying at night in the forest, 
Looking up at the trees, and the constellations beyond them. 

After a three days' march he came to an Indian encampment 
Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest ; 
Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, horrid with 

war-paint, 
Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together ; 
Who, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men, 
Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre and musket, 
Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them 

advancing, 
Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present ; 
Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was hatred. 
Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers gigantic in stature, 
Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan ; 
One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Wattawamat. 
Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards of 

wampum, 
Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a needle. 
Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and crafty. 
" Welcome, English ! " they said, — these words they had learned 

from the traders 
Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for peltries. 
Then in their native tongue they began to parley with Standish, 
Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, friend of the white man, 
Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for muskets and powder, 
Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with the plague, in his 

cellars, 
Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man ! 
But when Standish refused, and said he would give them the Bible, 
Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster. 
Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride iirfront of the other, 
And, with a lofty demeanour, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain ; 
" Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain, 
Angry is he in his heart ; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat 
Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a woman, 
But on a mountain, at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning, 
Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him, 
Shouting, ' Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawa- 
mat ?'" 



THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH. 483 

Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left 

hand. 
Held it aloft, and displayed a woman's face on the handle, 
Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning: 
u I have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle ; 
By and by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of children ! " 

Then stood Pecksuot forth, self- vaunting, insulting Miles Standish : 
While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his bosom, 
Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he mut- 
tered, 
"By and by it shall see ; it shall eat ; ah, ha ! but shall speak not ! 
This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us ! 
He is a little man ; let him go and work with the women ! " 

Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of Indians 
Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest, 
Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bow-strings, 
Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush. 
But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly; 
So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the fathers. 
But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the in- 
sult, 
All the hcfc blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de 

Standish, 
Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his temples. 
Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife from its 

scabbard, 
Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savage 
Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierceness upon it. 
Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the war- 
whoop, 
And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of December, 
Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery arrows. 
Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the light- 
ning, 
Out of the lightning thunder ; and death unseen ran before it. 
Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in thicket, 
Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the brave Wattawamat, 
Fled not ; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bullet 
Passed through his brain, and he fell with both hands clutching the 

- greensward. 
Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers. 

There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above 

them, 
Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the white man. 
Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain of Plymouth : 
" Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his strength, and his 

stature, — 



484 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little man ; but I see 

now 
Big enough have you been to lay him speechless before you ! ' 

Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles 

Standish. 
When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of Plymouth, 
And as a trophy of war the head of the brave Wattawamat 
Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church and 

a fortress, 
All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, and took courage. 
Only Priscilla averted her face from tins spectre of terror, 
Thanking God in her heart that she had not married Miles Standish ; 
Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home from his battles, . 
He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and reward of his 

valour. 

VIII. 

THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 

Month after month passed away, and in Autumn the ships of the 

merchants 
Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for the Pilgrims. 
All in the village was peace, the men were intent on their labours, 
Busy with hewing and building, with garden-plot and with mere- 
stead, 
J^usy with breaking the glebe, and mowing the grass in the meadows, 
Searching the sea for its fish, and hunting the deer in the forest. 
All in the village was peace ; but at times the rumour of warfare 
Filled the air with alarm, and the apprehension of danger. 
Bravely the stalwart Miles Standish was scouring the land with his 

forces, 
Waxing valiant in fight and defeating the alien armies, 
Till his name had become a sound of fear to the nations. 
Anger was still in his heart, but at times the remorse and contrition 
Which in all noble natures succeed the passionate outbreak, 
Came like a rising tide, that, en counters the rush of a river, 
Staying its current awhile, but making it bitter and brackish. 

Meanwhile Aldcn at home had built him a new habitation, 
Solid, substantial, of timber rough-hewn from the firs of the forest. 
Wooden-barred was the door, and the roof was covered with rushes; 
Latticed the windows were, and the window-panes were of paper, 
Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain were excluded. 
There too he dug a well, and around it planted an orchard. 
Still may be seen to this day some trace of the well and the orchard. 
Close to the house was the stall, where, safe and secure from 

annoyance, 
Eaghorn, the snow-white steer, that had fallen to Alden's allotment 
In the division of cattle, might ruminate in the night-time 



THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 485 

Over the pastures lie cropped, made fragrant by sweet pennyroyal. 
Oft when his labour was finished, with eager feet would the dreamer 
Follow the pathway that ran through the woods to the house of 

Priscilla, 
Led by illusions romantic and subtile deceptions of fancy, 
Pleasure disguised as duty, and love in the semblance of friendship, 
Ever of her he thought, when he fashioned the walls of his dwelling; 
Ever of her he thought, when he delved in the soil of his garden ; 
Ever of her he thought, when he read in his Bible on Sunday 
Praise of the virtuous woman, as she is described in the Proverbs, — 
How the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her always, 
How all the days of her life she will do him good, and not evil, 
How she seeketh the wool and the flax and worketh with gladness, 
How she layeth her hand to the spindle and holdeth the distaff, 
How she is not afraid of the snow for herself or her household, 
Knowing her household are clothed with the scarlet cloth of her 

weaving ! 

So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in the Autumn, 
Alden, who opposite sat, and was watching her dexterous fingers, 
As if the thread she was spinning were that of his life and his fortune. 
After a pause in their talk, thus spake to the sound of the spindle. 
" Truly, Priscilla," he said, " when I see you spinning and spinning, 
Kever idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful of others, 
Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly changed in a moment ; 
You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the Beautiful Spinner." 
Here the light foot on the treadle grew swifter and swifter; the 

spindle 
Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped short in her fingers ; 
While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the mischief, continued : 
" You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, the queen of Helvetia ; 
She whose story I read at a stall in the streets of Southampton, 
Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o'er valley and meadow and moun 

tain, 
Ever was spinning her thread from a distaff fixed to her saddle. 
She was so thrifty and good, that her name passed into a proverb. 
So shall it be with your own, when the spinning-wheel shall no longer 
Hum in the house of the farmer, and fill its chambers with music. 
Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how it was in their 

childhood, 
Praising the good old times, and the days of Priscilla the spinner I " 
Straight uprose from her wheel the beautiful Puritan maiden, 
Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him whose praise was the 

sweetest, 
Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein of her spinning, 
Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering phrases of Alden : 
u Come, you must not be idle ; if I am a pattern for housewives, 
Shew yourself equally worthy of being the model of husbands. 
Hold this skftir on yoiir hands, while I wind it, ready for kuitting; 



486 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Then who knows but hereafter, when fashions have changed and the 

maimers, 
Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old times of John Alden ! " 
Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his hands she adjusted, 
He sitting awkwardly there, with his arms extended before him, 
She standing graceful, erect, and winding the thread from his fingers. 
Sometimes chiding a little his clumsy manner of holding, 
Sometimes touching his hands, as she disentangled expertly 
Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares — for how could she help it ? — 
Sending electrical thrills through every nerve in his body. 

Lo ! in the midst of this scene, a breathless messenger entered, 
Bringing in hurry and heat the terrible news from the village. 
Yes ; Miles Standish was dead ! — an Indian had brought them the 

tidings, — 
Slain by a poisoned arrow, shot down in the front of the battle, 
Into an ambush beguiled, cut off with the whole of his forces ; 
All the town would be burned, and all the people be murdered ! 
Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the hearts of the hearers. 
Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face looking backward 
Still at the face of the speaker, her arms uplifted in horror; 
But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of the. arrow 
Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his own, and had 

sundered 
Once and for ever the bonds that held him bound as a captive, 
Wild with excess of sensation, the awful delight of his freedom, 
Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of what he was doing, 
Clasped, almost with a groan, the motionless form of Priscilla, 
Pressing her close to his heart, as for ever his own, and exclaiming : 
" Those whom the Lord Eath united, let no man put them asunder ! " 

Even as rivulets twain, from distant and separate sources, 
Seeing each other afar, as they leap from the rocks, and pursuing 
Each one its devious path, but drawing nearer and nearer, 
Rush together at last, at their trysting-place in the forest ; 
So these lives that had run thus far in separate channels, 
Coming in sight .of each other, then swerving and flowing asunder, 
Parted by barriers strong, but drawing nearer and nearer, 
Bushed together at last, and one was lost in the other. 

IX. 

THE WEDDING-DAY. 

Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of purple and 

scarlet, 
Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in his garments resplendent, 
Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his forehead, 
Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and pomegranates. 
Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapour beneath him 
Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his feet was a laver ! 



THE WEDDING-DAY. 487 

This was the wedding morn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden. 
Friends were assembled together ; the Elder and Magistrate also 
Graced the scene with their presence, and stood like the Law and 

the Gospel, 
One with the sanction of earth and one with, the blessing of heaven. 
Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth and of Boaz. 
Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words of betrothal, 
Taking each other for husband and wife in the Magistrate's presence,- 
After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of Holland. 
Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder of Plymouth 
Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were founded that day in 

affection, 
Speaking of life and of death, and imploring divine benedictions. 

Lo ! when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold, 
Clad in armour of steel, a sombre and sorrowful figure ! 
Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition? 
Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder ? 
Is it a phantom of air, — a bodiless, spectral illusion? 
Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal ? 
Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed ; 
Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expression 
Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath 

them, 
As when across the sky the driving rack of the rain-cloud 
Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by its brightness. 
Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent, 
As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention. 
But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last 

benediction, 
Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazement 
Bodily there in his armour Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth ! 
Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he said with emotion, " Forgive me ! 
I have been angry and hurt, — too long have I cherished the feeling; 
I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God ! it is ended. 
Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh Standish, 
Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error. 
Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John Alden." 
Thereupon answered the bridegroom : " Let all be forgotten between- 

us, — 
All save the dear, old friendship, and that shall grow older and dearer !" 
Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla, 
Gravely, and after the manner of old-fashioned gentry in England, 
Something of camp and of court, of town and of country, com- 
mingled, 
Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding her husband. 
Then he said with a smile : " I should have remembered the adage, — 
If you would be well served, you must serve yourself; and moreover, 
No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of Christmas ! " 



488 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Great was the people's amazement, and greater yet their rejoicing, 
Thus to behold once more the sun-burnt face of their Captain, 
Whom they had mourned as dead ; and they gathered and crowded 

about him, 
Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride and of bridegroom, 
Questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting the other, 
Till the good Captain declared, being quite overpowered and bewil- 
dered, 
He had rather by far break into an Indian encampment, 
Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited. 

Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with the bride 
at the doorway, 

Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful morning. 

Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad in the sunshine, 

Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation ; 

There were the graves of the dead, and the barren waste of the sea- 
shore, 

There the familiar fields, the groves of pine, and the meadows ; 

But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden of Eden, 

Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the sound of the 
ocean. 

Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of departure, 
Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer de- 
laying, 
Each with Jiis plan for the day, and the work that was left uncom- 
pleted. 
Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder, 
Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla, 
Brought out his snow-white steer, obeying the hand of its master, 
Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils, 
'Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle, 
She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the noon- 
day; 
Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant. 
Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others, 
Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her hus- 
band, 
Gaily, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey. 
" Nothing is wanting now," he said with a smile, "but the distaff; 
Then you would be in truth my queen, my beautiful Bertha!" 

Onward the bridal procession now moved to their new habitation, 
Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together. 
Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the 

forest, 
Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love through its 
bosom, 




Then from a stall near at hand amid exclamations of wonder 
Alden the thouzntful. the careful, so hapny. so pmwl of ItWLi 
Brmi«ht out bis snow-white st'-er. obeying the han<i "f its master, 
Led bv a cord that was tied to au iron ring in its n< etrilg. 



THE WEDDING-DAY. 489 

Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths of the azure abysses. 
Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendours, 
Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them sus- 
pended, 
Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir- 
tree, 
Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of EshcoL 
Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages, 
Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, 
Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always, 
Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers. 
So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession 



BIKDS OE PASSAGE. 



. . come i gru van cantando lor lai, 
Facendo in aer di se lunga riga. 

Dante. 



PROMETHEUS, 

OR THE POET'S FORETHOUGHT. 

Op Prometheus, how undaunted 
On Olympus' shining bastions 
His audacious foot he planted, 
Myths are told and songs are chanted, 
Full of promptings and suggestions 

Beautiful is the tradition- 

Of that flight through heavenly portals, 
The old classic superstition 
Of the theft and the transmission 
■ Of the fire of the Immortals ! 

First the deed of noble daring, 

Born of heavenward aspiration, 
Then the fire with mortals sharing, 
Then the vulture, — the despairing 
Cry of pain on crags Caucasian. 

All is but a symbol painted 

Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer ; 
Only those are crowned and sainted 
Who with grief have been acquainted, 

Making nations nobler, freer. 

In their feverish exultations, 

In their triumph and their yearning, 
In their passionate pulsations, 
In their words among the nations, 

The Promethean fire is burning. 

Shall it, then, be unavailing, 

All this toil for human culture ? 
Through the cloud-rack, dark and trailing, 
Must they see above them sailing ? ^ 
O'er life's barren crags the vulture? 



THE LADDER OF ST AUGUSTUm 491 

Such a fate as this was Dante's, 

By defeat and exile maddened ; 
Thus were Milton and Cervantes, 
Nature's priests and Corybantes, 

By affliction touched and saddened. 

But the glories so transcendent 

That around their memories cluster, 
And, on all their steps attendant, 
Make their darkened lives resplendent 
With such gleams of inward lustre ! 

All the melodies mysterious, 

Through the dreary darkness chanted ; 

Thoughts in attitudes imperious, 

Voices soft, and deep, and serious, 

Words that whispered, songs that haunted ! 

All the soul in rapt suspension, 

All the quivering, palpitating 
Chords of life in utmost tension, 
With the fervour of invention, 

With the rapture of creating ! 

Ah, Prometheus ! heaven-scaling ! 

In such hours of exultation 
Even the faintest heart, unquailrng, 
Might behold the vulture sailing 

Round the cloudy crags Caucasian ! 

Though to all there is not given 

Strength for such sublime endeavour, 

Thus to scale the walls of heaven, 

And to leaven with fiery leaven 
All the hearts of men for ever ; 

Tet all bards, whose hearts unblighted 

Honour and believe the presage, 
Hold aloft their torches lighted, 
Gleaming through the realms benighted, 

As they onward bear the message ! 



THE LADDER OF ST AUGUSTINE. 

/ Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said, 
That of our vices we can frame 
A ladder, if -we will but tread 

Beneath our feet each deed of shame ! 

* All common things, each day's events, 
That with the hour begin and end, 



492 BITCDS OF PASSAGE. 

Our pleasures and our discontents, 
Are rounds by which we may ascend. 

' O The low desire, the base design, 

That makes another's virtues less ; 
The revel of the ruddy wine, 
And all occasions of excess ; 

i+ The longing for ignoble things ; 

The strife for triumph more than truth ; 
I The hardening of the heart, that brings 

Irreverence for the dreams of youth ; 

£* All thoughts of ill ; all evil deeds, 

That have their root in thoughts of ill ; 
Whatever hinders or impedes 
The action of the nobler will ; — 

All these must first be trampled down 
Beneath our feet, if we would gain 

In the bright fields of fair renown 
The right of eminent domain. 

We have not wings, we cannot soar ; 

But we have feet to scale and climb 
By slow degrees, by more and mdre, 

The cloudy summits of our time. 

The mighty pyramids of stone 

That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, 

When nearer seen, and better known, 
Are but gigantic flights of stairs, 

The distant mountains, that uprear 
| Their solid bastions to the skies, 
Are crossed by pathways, that appear 
As we to higher levels rise. 

The heights by great men reached and kept 
Were not attained by sudden flighty 

But they, while their companions slept, 
Were toiling upward in the night. 

Standing on what too long we bore 

With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,, 

We may discern — unseen before — 
A path to higher destinies. 

Nor deem the irrevocable Past, 
As wholly wasted, wholly vain, 

If, rising on its wrecks, at last 
To something nobler we attain. 



THE PHANTOM SHIP. 493 



THE PHANTOM SHIP. 

N 

In Mather's Magnalia Christi, 

Of the old colonial time, 
May be found in prose the legend 

That is here set down in rhyme. 

A ship sailed from New Haven, 

And the teen and frosty airs, 
That filled her sails at parting, 

Were heavy with good men's prayers. 

" Lord ! if it be thy pleasure " — 

Thus prayed the old divine — 
" To bury our friends in the ocean, 

Take them, for they are thine ! " 

But Master Lamberton muttered, 

And under his breath said he, 
" This ship is so crank and walty 

I fear our grave she will be ! " 

And the ships that came from England, 
When the winter months were gone, 

Brought no tidings of this vessel, 
Nor of Master Lamberton. 

This put the people to praying 

That the Lord would let them hear 

What in His greater wisdom 

He had done with friends so dear. 

And at last their prayers were answered : — ■ 

It was in the month of June, 
An hour before the sunset 

Of a windy afternoon, 

When, steadily steering landward, 

A ship was seen below, 
And they knew it was Lamberton, Master, 

Who sailed so long ago. 

On she came, with a cloud of canvas, 
Right against the wind that blew, 

Until the eye could distinguish 
The faces of the crew. 

Then fell her straining topmasts, 
Hanging tangled in the shrouds, 

And her sails were loosened and lifted. 
And blown away like clouds. 

21 



494 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

And the masts, with all their rigging, 
Fell slowly, one by one, 

And the hulk dilated and vanished, 
As a sea-mist in the sun ! 

' And the people who saw this marvel 
Each said unto his friend, 
That this was the mould of their vessel, 
And thus her tragic end. 

And the pastor of the village 
Gave thanks to God in prayer, 

That to quiet their troubled spirits, 
He had sent this Ship of Air. 



THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 

A mist was driving down the British Channel, 

The day was just begun, 
And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, 

Streamed the red autumn sun. 

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, 

And the white sails of ships ; 
And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon 

Hailed it with feverish lips. 

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover 

Were all alert that day, 
To see the French war-steamers speeding over, 

When the fog cleared away. 

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, 

Their cannon through the night, 
Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, 

The sea-coast opposite. 

And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations 

On every citadel ; 
Each answering each, with morning salutations, 

That all was well. 

And down the coast, all taking up the" burden, 

Replied the distant forts, 
As if to summon from his sleep the Warden 

And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, 

No drum-beat from the wall, 
No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure, 

Awaken with its call ! 



HAUNTED HOUSES. 495 

No more, surveying with an eye impartial 

The long line of the coast, 
Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal 

Be seen upon his post ! 

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, 

In sombre harness mailed, 
Dreaded of man, and surname d the Destroyer, 

The rampart wall has scaled. 

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, 

The dark and silent room, 
And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, 

The silence and the gloom. 

He did not pause to parley or dissemble, 

But smote the "Warden hoar ; 
Ah ! what a blow ! that made all England tremble 

And groan from shore to shore. 

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, 

The sun rose bright o'erhead ; 
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated 

That a great man was dead. 



HAUNTED HOUSES. 

All houses wherein men have lived and died 
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors 

The harmless phantoms on then- errands glide, 
With feet that make no sound upon the floors. 

We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, 
Along the passages they come and go, 

Impalpable impressions on the air, 

A sense of something moving to and fro. 

There are more guests at" table, than the hosts 

Invited; the illuminated hall 
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, 

As silent as the pictures on the wall. 

The stranger at my fireside cannot see 

The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear : 

He but perceives what is ; while unto me 
All that has been is visible and clear. 

We have no title-deeds to house or lands ; 

Owners and occupants of earlier dates 
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands, 

And hold in mortmain still their old estates. 



496 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

The spirit-world around this world of sense 
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere 

Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense 
A vital breath of more ethereal air. 

Our little lives are kept in equipoise 
By opposite attractions and desires ; 

The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, 
And the more noble instinct that aspires. 

These perturbations, this perpetual jar 
Of earthly wants and aspirations high, 

Come from the influence of an unseen star, 
An undiscovered planet in our sky. 

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud 
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, 

Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd 
Into the realm of mystery and night, — 

So from the world of spirits there descends 
A bridge of light, connecting it with this, 

O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, 
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. 



IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. 

In the village churchyard she lies 
Dust is in her beautiful eyes, 

No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs; 
At .her feet and at her head 
Lies a slave to attend the dead, 

But their dust is white as hers. 

Was she a lady of high degree, 
So much in love with the vanity 

And foolish pomp of this world of ours ? 
Or was it Christian charity, 
And lowliness and humility, 

The richest and rarest of all dowers ? 

Who shall tell us ? No one speaks ; 
No colour shoots into those cheeks, 

Either of anger or of pride, 
At the rude question we have asked ; 
Nor will the mystery be unmasked « 

By those who are sleeping at her side. 

Hereafter ? — And do you think to look 
On the terrible pages of that Book 



THE EMPERORS BIRD S-NEST. 497 

To find her failings, faults, and errors ? 
All, you will then have other cares, 
In your own short-comings and despairs, 

In your own secret sins and terrors ! 



THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST. 

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, 
With his swarthy, grave commanders, 

I forget in what campaign, 

Long beseiged, in mud and rain, 
Some old frontier town of Flanders. 

Up and down the dreary camp, 
In great boots of Spanish leather, 

Striding with a measured tramp, 

These Hidalgos, dull and damp, 

Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weathei 

Thus as to and fro they went, 

Over upland and through hollow, 
Giving their impatience vent, 
Perched upon the Emperor's tent, 
In her nest, they spied a swallow. 

Yes, it was a swallow's nest, 

Built of clay and hair of horses, 
Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest, 
Found on hedge-rows east and west, 
After skirmish of the forces. 

Then an old Hidalgo said, 

As he twirled his gray mustachio, 
" Sure this swallow overhead 
Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed. 
And the Emperor but a Macho ! " 

Hearing his imperial name 

Coupled with those words of malice, 
Half in anger, half in shame, 
Forth the great campaigner came 

Slowly from his canvas palace. 

" Let no hand the bird molest," 
Said he solemnly, " nor hurt her ! n 

Adding then, by way of jest, 

u Golondrina is my guest, 
'Tis the wife of some deserter 1" 



498 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, 

Through the camp was spread the rumour, 
And the soldiers, as they quaffed 
Flemish beer at dinner, laughed 

At the Emperor's pleasant humour. 

So unharmed and unafraid 

Sat the swallow still and brooded, 
Till the constant cannonade 
Through the walls a breach had made, 
And the siege was thus concluded. 

Then the army, elsewhere bent, 
Struck its tents as if disbanding, 

Only not the Emperor's tent, 

For he ordered, ere he went, 

Very curtly, " Leave it standing ! " 

So it stood there all alone, 

Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, 
Till the brood was fledged and flown, 
Singing o'er those walls of stone 

Which the cannon-shot had shattered. 



THE TWO ANGELS. 

Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, 
Passed o'er our village as the morning broke ; 

The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, 

The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. 

Their attitude and aspect were the same, 

Alike their features and their robes of white; 

But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, 
And one with asphodels, like flakes of light. 

I saw them pause on their celestial way ; 

Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, 
u Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray 

The place where thy beloved are at rest ! 

And he who wore the crown of asphodels, 
Descending, at my door began to knock, 

And my soul sank within me, as in wells 

The waters sink before an earthquake's shock. 

I recognised the nameless agony, 

The terror and the tremor and the pain, 

That oft before had filled or haunted me, 

And now returned with threefold strength again. 



DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. 499 

The door I opened to my heavenly guest), 
And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice ; 

And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best, 
Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. 

Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, 
" My errand is not Death, but Life," he said ; 

And ere I answered, passing out of sight, 
On his celestial embassy he sped. 

'Twas at thy door, friend ! and not at mine, 

The angel with the amaranthine wreath, 
Pausing, descended, and with voice divine, 

Whispered a word that had a sound like Death. 

Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, 
A shadow on those features fair and thin ; 

And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, 
Two angels issued, where but one went in. 

All is of God ! If he but wave his hand, 

The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, 

Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, 
Lo ! he looks back from the departing cloud. 

Angels of Life and Death alike are his; 

Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er ; 
Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, 

Against his messengers to shut the door ? 



DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. 

In broad daylight, and at noon, 
Yesterday I saw the moon 
Sailing high, but faint and white, 
As a school-boy's paper kite. 

In broad daylight yesterday, 
I read a Poet's mystic lay ; , 
And it seemed to me at most 
As a phantom, or a ghost. 

But at length the feverish day 
Like a passion died away, 
And the night, serene and still, 
Fell on village, vale, and hill. 

Then the moon, in all her pride, 
Like a spirit glorified, 



500 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Filled and overflowed tjie night 
With revelations of her light. 

And the Poet's song again 

Passed like music through my brain ; 

Night interpreted to me 

All its grace and mystery. 



THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT. 

How strange it seems ! These Hebrews in their graves, 
Close by the street of this fair seaport town, 

Silent beside the never-silent waves, 

At rest in all this moving up and down ! 

The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep 
Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, 

While underneath such leafy tents they keep 
The long, mysterious Exodus of Death. 

And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, 
That pave with level flags their burial-place, 

Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down 
And broken by Moses at the mountain's base. 

The very names recorded here are strange, 
Of foreign accent, and of different chmes ; 

Alvares and Rivera interchange 

With Abraham and Jacob of old times. 

" Blessed be God ! for he created Death ! " 

The mourners said, " and Death is rest and peace ; " 

Then added, in the certainty of faith, 

" And giveth Life that never more shall cease." 

Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, 
No Psalms of David now the silence break, 

No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue 
In the grand dialect the Prophets spake. 

Gone are the living, but the dead remain, 

And not neglected; for a hand unseen, 
Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain, 

Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green- 
How came they here ? What burst of Christian hate* 

What persecution, merciless and blind, 
Drove o'er the sea — that desert desolate — 

These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind ? 



OLIVER BASSEUN. 501 

They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, 

Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire ; 
Taught in the school of patience to endure 

The life of anguish and the death of fire. 

All their lives long, with the unleavened bread 

And bitter herbs of exile and its fears, 
The wasting famine of the heart they fed, 

And slaked its thirst with marah of their tears. 

Anathema maranatha ! wa* the cry 

That rang from town to town, from street to street ; 
At every gate the accursed Mordecai 

Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet. 

Pride and humiliation hand in hand 

Walked with them through the world where'er they went ; 
Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, 

And yet unshaken as the continent. 

For in the background figures vague and vast 

Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime, 
And all the great traditions of the Past 

They saw reflected in the coming time. 

And thus for ever with reverted look 

The mystic volume of the world they read, 
Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, 

Till life became a Legend of the Dead. 

But ah ! what once has been shall be no more ! 

The groaning earth in travail and in pain 
Brings forth its races, but does not restore, 

And the dead nations never rise again. 



OLIVER BASSELIN. 

In the Valley of the Vire 

Still i3 seen an ancient mill, 

With its gables quaint and queer, 

And beneath the window-sill, 

On the stone, 

These words alone : 

" Oliver Basselin lived here." 

Far above it, on the steep, 

Kuined stands the old Chateau i 3 



bie:ds of passage. 

Nothing but the donjon-keep 
Left for shelter or for show. 

Its vacant eyes 

Stare at the skies, 
Stare at the valley green and deep. 

Once a convent, old and brown, 

Looked, but ah ! it looks no more , 
From the neighbouring hillside down 
On the rushing and the roar 
Of the stream 
Whose sunny gleam 
Cheers the little Norman town. 

In that darksome mill of stone, 
To the water's dash and din, 
Careless, humble, and unknown, 
Sang the poet Basselin 
Songs that fill 
That ancient mill 
With a splendour of its own. 

Never feeling of unrest 

Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed ; 
Only made to be his nest, 
All the lovely valley seemed; 
No desire 
Of soaring higher 
Stirred or fluttered in his breast. 

True, his songs were not divine ; 

Were not songs of that high art, 
Which, as winds do in the pine, 
Find an answer in each heart ; 
But the mirth 
Of this green earth 
Laughed and revelled in his line. 

From the alehouse and the inn, 
Opening on the narrow street, 
Came the loud, convivial din, 
Singing and applause of feet, 
The laughing lays 
That in those days 
Sang the poet Basselin. 

In the castle, cased in steel. 

Knights, who fought at Agincouxt,, 



VICTOK GALBRAITB. 503 

"Watched and waited, spur on heel ; 
But the poet sang for sport 

Songs that rang 

Another clang, 
Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. 

In the convent, clad in gray, 

Sat the monks in lonely cells, 
Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray, 
And the poet heard their bells ; 
But his rhymes 
Found other chimes, 
Nearer to the earth than they. 

Gone are all the barons bold, 

Gone are all the knights and squires, 
Gone the abbot stern and cold, 
And the brotherhood of friars ; 
Not a name 
Remains to fame, 
From those mouldering days of old ! 

But the poet's memory here 

Of the landscape makes a part ; 
Like the river, swift and clear, 

Flows his song through many a heart ; 
Haunting still 
That ancient mill, 
In the Yalley of the Vire. 



VICTOR GALBRAITH. 

Under the walls of Monterey 

At daybreak the bugles began to play, . 

Victor Galbraith ! 
In the mist of the morning damp and gray, 
"These were the words they seemed to say : 

" Come forth to thy death, 

Victor Galbraith ! " 

Forth he came, with a martial tread ; 
Firm was his step, erect his head ; 

Victor Galbraith, 
He who so well the bugle played, 
Could not mistake the words it said : 

" Come forth to thy death, 

Victor Galbraith ! " 



504 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, 
He looked at the files of musketry, 

Victor Galbraith ! 
And he said, with a steady voice and eye, 
" Take good aim ; I am ready to die ! " 

Thus challenges death 

Victor Galbraith. 

Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, 
Six leaden balls on their errand sped ; 

Victor Galbraith 
Falls to the ground, but he is not dead ; 
His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, 

And they only scathe 

Victor Galbraith. 

Three balls are in his breast and brain, 
But he rises out of the dust again, 

Victor Galbraith ! 
The water he drinks has a bloody stain ; 
" kill me, and put me out of my pain I * 

In his agony prayeth 

Victor Galbraith. 

Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, 
And the bugler has died a death of shame, 

Victor Galbraith ! 
His soul has gone back to whence it came, 
And no one answers to the name, 

When the Sergeant saith, 

"Victor Galbraith!" 

Under the walls of Monterey 
By night a bugle is heard to play, 

Victor Galbraith ! 
Through the mist of the valley damp and gray 
The sentinels hear the sound, and say, 

" That is the wraith 

Of Victor Galbraith ! " 



MY LOST YOUTH. 

Often I think of the beautiful town 

That is seated by the sea ; 
Often in thought go up and down 
The pleasant streets of that dear old town, 
And my youth comes back to me. 
And a verse of a Lapland song 
.Is haunting my memory still : 



MY LOST YOUTH. 



505 



u A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, 

And catch, in sudden gleams, 
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, 
And islands that were the Hesperides 
Of all my boyish dreams. 

And the burden of that old song, 
It murmurs and whispers still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I remember the black wharves and the slips, 

And the sea-tides tossing free ; 
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
And the beauty and mystery of the ships, 
And the magic of the sea. 

And the voice of that wayward song 
Is singing and saying still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I remember the bulwarks by the shore, 

And the fort upon the hill ; 
The sun-rise gun, with its hollow roar, 
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, 
And the bugle wild and shrill. 
And the music of that old song 
Throbs in my memory still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I remember the sea-fight far away, 
How it thundered o'er the tide ! 
And the dead captains, as they lay 
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, 
Where they in battle died. 

And the sound of that mournful song 
Goes through me with a thrill : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts/' 

I can see the breezy dome of groves, 
The shadows of Deering's Woods ; 
And the friendships old and the early loves 
Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves 
In quiet neighbourhoods. 

Arid the verse of that sweet old song, 
It flutters and murmurs still : 



506 BIEDS OF PASSAGE. 

" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart 

Across the school-'boy's brain ; 
The song and the silence in the heart, 
That in part are prophecies, and in part 
Are longings wild and vain. 

And the voice of that fitful song 
Sings on, and is never still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

There are things of which I may not speak ; 

There are dreams that cannot die ; 
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, 
And bring a pallor into the cheek, 
And a mist before the eye. 

And the words of that fatal song 
Come over me like a chill : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

Strange to me now are the forms I meet 

When I visit the dear old town ; 
But the native air is pure and sweet, 
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, 
As they balance up and down, 
Are singing the beautiful song, 
Are sighing and whispering still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, 

And with joy that is almost pain 
My heart goes back to wander there, 
And among the dreams of the days that were, 
I find my lost youth again. 

And the strange and beautiful song, 
The groves are repeating it still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 



THE ROPEWALK. 

In that building, long and low. 
With its windows all a-row, 

Like the port-holes of a hulk, 
Human spiders spin and spin, 



THE ROPE WALK. 507 

Backward down their threads so thin 
Dropping, each a hempen bulk. 

At the end, an open door ; 
Squares of sunshine on the floor 

Light the long and dusky lane ; 
And the whirring of a wheel, 
Dull and drowsy, makes me feel 

All its spokes are in my brain. 

As the spinners to the end 
Downward go and reascend, 

Gleam the long threads in the sun ; 
While within this brain of mine 
Cobwebs brighter and more fine 

By the busy wheel are spun. 

Two fair maidens in a swing, 
Like white doves upon the wing, 

First before my vision pass ; 
Laughing, as their gentle hands 
Closely clasp the twisted strands, 

At their shadow on the grass. 

Then a booth of mountebanks, 
With its smell of tan and planks, 

And a girl poised high in air 
On a cord, in spangled dress, 
With a faded loveliness, 

And a weary look of care. 

Then a homestead among farms, 
And a woman with bare arms 

Drawing water from a well ; 
As the bucket mounts apace, 
With it mounts her own fair face, 

As at some magician's spell. 

Then an old man in a tower, 
Ringing loud the noontide hour, 

While the rope coils round and round 
Like a serpent at his feet, 
And again, in swift retreat, 

Nearly lifts him from the ground. 

Then within a prison-yard, 
Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, 

Laughter and indecent mirth ; 
Ah ! it is the gallows-tree ! 
Breath of Christian charity, 

Blow, and sweep it from the earth ! 



508 BIEDS OF PASSAGE. 

Then a school-boy, with his kite 
Gleaming in a sky of light, 

And an eager, upward look ; 
Steeds pursued through lane and field ; 
Fowlers with their snares concealed ; 

And an angler by a brook. 

Ships rejoicing m the breeze, 
Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, 

Anchors dragged through faithless sand ; 
Sea-fog drifting overhead, 
And, with lessening line and lead, 

Sailors feeling for the land. 

All these scenes do I behold, 
These, and many left untold, 

In that building long and low ; 
While the wheel goes round and round, 
With the drowsy, dreamy sound, 

And the spinners backward go. 



THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 

Leafless are the trees ; their purple branches 
Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral, 

Rising silent 
In the Red Sea of the Winter sunset. 

From the hundred chimneys of the village, 
Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, 

Smoky columns 
Tower aloft into the air of amber. 

At the window winks the flickering fire-light ; 
Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer,, 

Social watch-fires 
Answering one another through the darkness,, 

On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing, 
And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree, 

For its freedom 
Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them. 

By the fireside there are old men seated, 
Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, 

Asking sadly 
Of the Past what it can ne'er restore thejn. 



CATAWBA WINE. <509 

By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, 
Building castles fair, with stately stairways, 

Asking blindly 
Of the Future what it cannot give them. 

By the fireside tragedies are acted 

In whose scenes appear two actors only, 

"Wife and husband, 
And above them God the sole spectator. 

By the fireside there are peace and comfort, 
Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces, 

Waiting, watching 
For a well-known footstep in the passage. 

Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile-stone ; 
Is the central point, from which he measures 

Every distance 
Through the gateways of the world around him. 

In his*f arthest wanderings still he sees it ; 

Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind, 

As he heard them 
When he sat with those who were, but are not. 

Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, 
Nor the march of the encroaching city, 

Drives an exile 
From the hearth of his ancestral homestead. 

We may build more splendid habitations, 

Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures, 

But we cannot 
Buy with gold the old associations ! 



CATAWBA WINE. 

This song of mine 
Is a Song of the Vine, 

To be sung by the glowing embers 
Of wayside inns, 
When the rain begins 

To darken the drear Novembers. 

It is not a song 

Of the Scuppernong, 
From warm Carolinian valleys, 

Nor the Isabel 

And the Muscadel 
That bask in our garden alleys. 

2K 



510 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Nor the red Mustang, 

Whose clusters hang 
O'er the waves of the Colorado, 

And the fiery flood 

Of whose purple blood 
Has a dash of Spanish bravado. 

For richest and best 

Is the wine of the West, 
That grows by the Beautiful River ; 

Whose sweet perfume 

Fills all the room 
With a benison on the giver. 

And as hollow trees 

Are the haunts of bees, 
For ever going and coming ; 

So this crystal hive 

Is all alive 
With a swarming and buzzing and humming. 

Very good in its way 

Is the Verzenay, 
Or the Sillery soft and creamy ; 

But Catawba wine 

Has a taste more divine, 
More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. 

There grows no vine 

By the haunted Rhine, 
By Danube or Guadalquivir, 

Nor on island or cape, 

That bears such a grape 
As grows by the Beautiful River. 

Drugged is their juice 

For foreign use, 
When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, 

To rack our brains 

With the fever pains, 
That have driven the Old World frantic. 

To the sewers and sinks 

With all such drinks, 
And after them tumble the mixer ; 

For a poison malign 

Is such Borgia wine, 
Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. 



While pure as a spring 
Is the wine I sing, 



SANTA FILOMESTA. 511 

And to praise it, one needs but name it; 

For Catawba wine 

Has need of no sign, 
No tavern-bush, to proclaim it. 

And this Song of the Vine, 

This greeting of mine, 
The winds and the birds shall deliver 

To the Queen of the West, 

In her garlands dressed, 
On the banks of the Beautiful River. 



SANTA FILOMENA. 

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, 
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, 

Our hearts, in glad surprise, 

To higher levels rise. 

The tidal wave of deeper souls 
Into our inmost being rolls, 

And lifts us unawares 

Out of all meaner cares. 

Honour to those whose words or deeds 
Thus help us in our daily needs, 
And by their overflow 
Raise us from what is low ! 

Thus thought I, as by night I read 

Of the great army of the dead, 
The trenches cold and damp, 
The starved and frozen camp, — 

The wounded from the battle-plain, 
In dreary hospitals of pain, 

The cheerless corridors, 

The cold and stony floors. 

Lo ! in that house of misery 

A lady with a lamp I see 

Pass through the glimmering gloom, 
And flit from room to room. 

And slow, as in a dream of bliss, 
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss 
Her shadow, as it falls 
Upon the darkening walls. 



512 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

As if a door in heaven should be 
Opened and then closed suddenly, 
The vision came and went, 
The light shone and was spent. 

On England's annals, through the long 
Hereafter of her speech and song, 
That light its rays shall cast 
From portals of the past. 

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand 
In the great history of the land, 

A noble type of good, 

Heroic womanhood. 

Nor even shall be wanting here 
The palm, the lily, and the spear, 
The symbols that of yore 
Saint Filomena bore. 



THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPR 

A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED^ OROSIUS. 

Othere, the old sea-captain, 

Who dwelt in Helgoland, 
To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, 
Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, 

Which he held in his brown right hand. 

His figure was tall and stately, 
Like a boy's his eye appeared ; 

His hair was yellow as hay, 

But threads of a silvery gray 
Gleamed in his tawny beard. 

Hearty and hale was Othere, 

His cheek had the colour of oak ; 

With a kind of laugh in his speech, 

Like the sea-tide on a beach, 
As unto the King he spoke. 

And Alfred, King of the Saxons, 

Had a book upon his knees, 
And wrote down the wondrous tale 
Of him who was first to sail 

Into the Arctic seas. 

u So far I live to the northward, 
No man lives north of me ; 



THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH GAPE, 513 

To the east are wild mountain-chains, 
And beyond them meres and plains ; 
To the westward all is sea. 

" So far I live to the northward, 
From the harbour of Skeringes-hale, 

If you only sailed by day, 

With a fair wind all the way, 
More than a month would you saiL 

u I own six hundred reindeer, 

With sheep and swine beside ; 
I have tribute from the Finns, 
Whalebone and reindeer-skins, 

And ropes of walrus-hide. 

*' I ploughed the land with horses, 

But my heart was ill at ease, 
For the old seafaring men 
Came to me now and then, 

With their sagas of the seas ; — 

u Of Iceland and of Greenland, 

And the stormy Hebrides, 
And the undiscovered deep ; — 
I could not eat nor sleep 

For thinking of those seas. 

u To the northward stretched the desert, 

How far I fain would know ; 
So at last I sallied forth, 
And three days sailed due north, 

As far as the whale-ships go. 

u To the west of me was the ocean, 

To the right the desolate shore, 
But I did not slacken sail 
For the walrus or the whale, 

Till after three days more. 

" The days grew longer and longer, 

Till they became as one, 
And southward through the haze 
I saw the sullen blaze 

Of the red midnight sun. 

" And then uprose before me, 

Upon the water's edge, 
The huge and haggard shape 
Of that unknown North Cape, 

Whose form is like a wedge. 



514 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

" The sea was rough and stormy, 

The tempest howled and wailed, 
And the sea-fog, like a ghost, 
Haunted that dreary coast, 
But onward still I sailed. 

u Four days I steered to eastward, 

Four days without a night : 
Round in a fiery ring 
Went the great sun, King, 
With red and lurid light." 

Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, 

Ceased writing for a while ; 
And raised his eyes from his book, 
With a strange and puzzled look, 
And an ineredulous smile. 

But Othere, the old sea-captain, 

He neither paused nor stirred, 
Till the King listened, and then 
Once more took up his pen, 
And wrote down every word. 

u And now the land," said Othere, 

u Bent southward suddenly, 
And I followed the curving shore 
And ever southward bore 
Into a nameless sea. 

" And there we hunted the walrus, 
The narwhale, and the seal ; 

Ha ! 'twas a noble game ! 

And like the lightning's flame 
Flew our harpoons of steel. 

u There were six of us all together, 

Norsemen of Helgoland ; 
In two days and no more 
We killed of them threescore, 

And dragged them to the strand f" 

Here Alfred the Truth-Teller 

Suddenly closed his book, 
And lifted his blue eyes, 
With doubt and strange surmise 
Depicted in their look. 

And Othere the old sea-captain 
Stared at him wild and weird, 



THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. 

Then smiled, till his shining teeth 

Gleamed white from underneath 

His tawny, quivering beard. 

And to the King of the Saxons, 

In witness of the truth, 
Raising his noble head, 
He stretched his brown hand, and said, 

" Behold this walrus-tooth ! " 



515 



DAYBREAK. 

A wind came up out of the sea, 

And said, " mists, make room for me.'' 

It hailed the ships, and cried, " Sail on, 
Ye mariners, the night is gone." 

And hurried landward far away, 
Crying, " Awake ! it is the day," 

It said unto the forest, " Shout ! 
Hang all your leafy banners out ! " 

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, 
And said, " bird, awake and sing." 

And o'er the farms, u O chanticleer, 
Your clarion blow ; the day is near." 

It whispered to the fields of corn, 
"Bow down, and hail the coming morn." 

It shouted through the belfry-tower, 
" Awake, bell ! proclaim the hour." 

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, 
And said, " Not yet ! in quiet lie." 



THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. 
May 28, 1857. 

It was fifty years ago 

In the pleasant month of May, 

In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, 
A child in its cradle lay. 



516 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

And Nature, the old nurse, took 
The child upon her knee, 

Saying : " Here is a story-book 
Thy Father has written for thee." 

"Come, wander with me," she said, 
" Iu to regions yet untrod; 

And read what is still unread 
In the manuscripts of God." 

And he wandered away and away 
With Nature, the dear old nurse. 

Who sang to him night and day 
The rhymes of the universe. 

And whenever the way seemed long, 
Or his heart began to fail, 

She would sing a more wonderful song, 
Or tell a more marvellous tale. 

So she keeps him still a child, 
And will not let him go, 

Though at times his heart beats wild 
For the beautiful Pays de Vaud ; 

Though at times he hears in his dreams 
The Ranz des Vaches of old, 

And the rush of mountain streams 
From glaciers clear and cold ; 

And the mother at home says, " Hark 1 
For his voice I listen and yearn ; 

It is growing late and dark, 
And my boy does not return ! " 



CHILDREN. 



Come to me, ye children ! 

For I hear you at your play, 
And the questions that perplexed me 

Have vanished quite away. 

Ye open the eastern windows, 

That look towards the sun, 
Where thoughts are singing swallows 

And the brooks of morning run. 

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, 
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow, 

But in mine is the wind of Autumn 
And the first fall of the snow. 



SANDALPHON. 


517 


All ! what would the world be to us 




Tf the children were no more ? 




We should dread the desert behind us 




Worse than the dark before. 




What the leaves are to the forest, 




With light and air for food, 




Ere their sweet and tender juices 




Have been hardened into wood, — 




That to the world are children ; 




Through them it feels the glow 
Of a brighter and sunnier chmate 




Than reaches the trunks below. 




Come to me, ye children ! 




And whisper in my ear 
What the birds and the winds are singing 




In your sunny atmosphere. 




For what are all our contrivings, 
And the wisdom of our books, 




When compared with your caresses, 
And the gladness of your looks ? 




Ye are better than all the ballads 




That ever were sung or said ; 




For ye are living poems, 
And all the rest are dead. 




SANDALPHON. 




Have you read in the Talmud of old, 




In the Legends the Rabbins have told 
Of the limitless realms of the air, — 




Have you read it, — the marvellous story 




Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, 
Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer ? 




How, erect, at the outermost gates 




Of the City Celestial he waits, 

With his feet on the ladder of light, 




That, crowded with angels unnumbered^ 




By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered 




Alone in the desert at night ? 




The Angels of Wind and of Fire 




Chant only one hymn, and expire 
With the song's irresistible stress ; 





618 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Expire in their rapture and wonder, 

As harp-strings are broken asunder 

By music they throb to express. 

But serene in the rapturous throng, 
Unmoved by the rush of the song, 

With eyes unimpassioned and slow, 
Among the dead angels, the deathless 
Sandalphon stands listening breathless 

To sounds that ascend from below ; — 

From the spirits on earth that adore, 
From the souls that entreat and implore 

In the fervour and passion of prayer ; 
From the hearts that are broken with lossep, 
And weary with dragging the crosses 

Too heavy for mortals to bear. 

And he gathers the prayers as he stands, 
And they change into flowers in his hands, 

Into garlands of purple and red ; 
And beneath the great arch of the portal, 
Through the streets of the City Immortal 

Is wafted the fragrance they shed. 

It is but a legend, I know, — 
A fable, a phantom, a show, 

Of the ancient Kabbinical lore ; 
Yet the old mediaeval tradition, 
The beautiful, strange superstition, 

But haunts me and holds me the more. 

When I look from my window at night, 
And the welkin above is all white, 

All throbbing and panting with stars. 
Among them majestic is standing 
Sandalphon the^angel, expanding 

His pinions in nebulous bars. 

And the legend, I feel, is a part 

Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, 

The frenzy and fire of the brain, 
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, 
The golden pomegranates of Eden, 

To quiet its fever and pain. 



EPBIETKEUS. 



519 



EPIMETHEUS, 

OR THE POET'S AFTERTHOUGHT. 

Have I dreamed ? or was it real, 

What I saw as in a vision, 
When to marches hymeneal 
In the land of the Ideal 

Moved my thought o'er Fields Elysian ? 

What ! are these the guests whose glances 
Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me * 

These the wild, bewildering fancies, 

That with dithyrambic dances 
As with magic circles bound me ? 

Ah ! how cold are their caresses ! 

Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms ! 
Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, 
And from loose, dishevelled tresses 

Fall the hyacinthine blossoms ! 

my songs ! whose winsome measures 
Filled my heart with secret rapture 1 

Children of my golden leisures ! 

Must even your delights and pleasures 
Fade and perish with the capture ? 

Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous 

When they came to me unbidden ; 
Voices single, and in chorus, 
Like the wild birds singing o'er us 
In the dark of branches hidden. 

Disenchantment ! Disillusion ! 

Must each noble aspiration 
Come at last to this conclusion, 
Jarring discord, wild confusion, 

Lassitude, renunciation ? 

Not with steeper fall nor faster, 
From the sun's serene dominions, 

Not through brighter realms nor vaster 

In swift ruin and disaster, 

Icarus fell with shattered pinions ! 

Sweet Pandora ! dear Pandora ! 

Why did mighty Jove create thee 
Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, 
Beautiful as young Aurora, 

If to win thee is to hate thee ? 



520 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

No, not hate thee ! for this feeling 
Of unrest and long resistance 

Is but passionate appealing, 

A prophetic whisper stealing 
O'er the chords of our existence. 

Him whom thou dost once enamour, 

Thou, beloved, never leavest ; 
In life's discord, strife, and clamour, 
Still he feels thy spell of glamour ; 
Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest. 

Weary hearts by thee are lifted, 

Struggling souls by thee are strengthened, 
Clouds of fear asunder rifted, 
Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted, 
Lives, like days in summer, lengthened ! 

Therefore art thou ever dearer, 

my Sibyl, my deceiver ! 
For thou makest each mystery clearer, 
And the unattained seems nearer, 

When thou fillest my heart with fever 1 

Muse of all the Gifts and Graces ! 

Though the fields around us wither, 
There are ampler realms and spaces, 
Where no foot has left its traces : 

Let us turn and wander thither I 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INK 



PRELUDE. 



THE WAYSIDE INN". 



One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, 

Across the meadows bare and brown, 

The windows of the wayside inn 

Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves 

Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves 

Their crimson curtains rent and thin. 

As ancient is this hostelry 

As any in the land may be, 

Built in the old Colonial day, 

"When men lived in a grander way, 

With ampler hospitality ; 

A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, 

Kow somewhat fallen to decay, 

"With weather-stains upon the wall, 

And stairways worn, and crazy doors, 

And creaking and uneven floors, 

And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. 

A region of repose it seems, 

A place of slumber and of dreams, 

Remote among the wooded hills ! 

For there no noisy railway speeds, 

Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleedsj 

But noon and night, the panting teams 

Stop under the great oaks, that throw 

Tangles of light and shade below, 

On roofs and doors and window-sills. 

Across the road the barns display 

Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, 

Through the wide doors the breezes blow, 

The wattled cocks strut to and fro, 

And, half effaced by rain and shine, 

The Red Horse prances on the sign. 



5^2 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Kound tliis old-fashioned, quaint abode 
Deep silence reigned, save when a gust 
Went rushing down the county road, 
And skeletons of leaves, and dust, 
A moment quickened by its breath, 
Shuddered and danced their dance of death, 
And through the ancient oaks o'erhead 
Mysterious voices moaned and lied. 

But from the parlour of the inn 

A pleasant murmur smote the ear, 

Like water rushing through a weir ; 

Oft interrupted by the din 

Of laughter and of loud applause, 

And, in each intervening pause, 

The music of a violin. 

The fire-light, shedding over all 

The splendour of its ruddy glow, 

Filled the whole parlour large and low ; 

It gleamed on wainscot and on wall, 

It touched with more than wonted grace 

Fair Princess Mary's pictured face ; 

It bronzed the rafters overhead, 

On the old spinet's ivory keys 

It played inaudible melodies, 

It crowned the sombre clock with flame, 

The hands, the hours, the maker's name, 

And painted with a livelier red 

The Landlord's coat-of-arms again ; 

And, flashing on the window-pane, 

Emblazoned with its light and shade 

The jovial rhymes, that still remain, 

"Writ near a century ago, 

By the great Major Molineaux, 

Whom Hawthorne has immortal made. 

Before the~blazing fire of wood 
Erect the rapt musician stood ; 
And ever and anon he bent 
His head upon his instrument, 
And seemed to listen, till he caught 
Confessions of its secret thought, — 
The joy, the triumph, the lament, 
The exultation and the pain ; 
Then, by the magic of his art, 
He soothed the throbbings of its heart, 
And lulled it into peace again. 

Around the fireside at their ease 
There sat a group of friends, entranced 



THE WAYSIDE INN. 

With, the delicious melodies ; 
Who from the far-off noisy town 
Had to the wayside inn come down, 
To rest beneath, its old oak-trees. 
The fire-light on their faces glanced, 
Their shadows on the wainscot danced, 
And, though of different lands and speech, 
Each had his tale to tell, and each 
Was anxious to be pleased and please. 
And while the sweet musician plays, 
Let me in outline sketch them all, 
Perchance uncouthly as the blaze 
With its uncertain touch portrays 
Their shadowy semblance on the wall. 

But first the Landlord will I trace ; 

Grave in his aspect and attire ; 

A man of ancient pedigree, 

A Justice of the Peace was he, 

Known in all Sudbury as " The Squire." 

Proud was he of his name and race, 

Of Old Sir William and Sir Hugh, 

And in the parlour, full in view, 

His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, 

Upon the wall in colours blazed; 

He beareth gules upon his shield, 

A chevron argent in the field, 

With three wolves' heads, and for the crest 

A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed 

Upon a helmet barred ; below 

The scroll reads, " By the name of Howe/' 

And over this, no longer bright, 

Though glimmering with a latent light, 

Was hung the sword his grandsire bore, 

In the rebellious days of yore, 

Down there at Concord in the fight. 

A youth was there, of quiet ways, 

A Student of old books and days, 

To whom all tongues and lands were known. 

And yet a lover of his own ; 

With many a social virtue graced, 

And yet a friend of solitude ; 

A man of such a genial mood, 

The heart of all things he embraced, 

And yet of such fastidious taste, 

He never found the best too good. 

Books were his passion and delight, 

And in his upper room at home 

Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome, 



523 ; 



524 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

In vellum bound, with gold bediglit, 

Great volumes garmented in white, 

Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. 

He loved the twilight that surrounds 

The border-land of old romance ; 

Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance, 

And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, 

And ladies ride with hawk on wrist, 

And mighty warriors sweep along, 

Magnified by the purple mist, 

The dusk of centuries and of song. 

The chronicles of Charlemagne, 

Of Merlin and the Mort d' Arthure, 

Mingled together in his brain 

With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur. 

Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, 

Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, 

Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain. 

A young Sicilian, too, was there ; — 

In sight of Etna born and bred, 

Some breath of its volcanic air 

Was glowing in his heart and brain ; 

And, being rebellious to his liege, 

After Palermo's fatal siege, 

Across the western seas he fled, 

In good King Bomba's happy reign. 

His face was like a summer night, 

All flooded with a dusky light ; 

His hands were small ; his teeth shone white 

As sea-shells, when he smiled or sjjoke ; 

His sinews supple and strong as oak ; 

Clean shaven was he as a priest, 

Who at the mass on Sunday sings, 

Save that upon his upper lip 

His beard, a good palm's length at least, 

Level and pointed at the tip, 

Shot sideways, like a swallow's wings. 

The poets read he o'er and o'er, 

And most of all the Immortal Four 

Of Italy ; and next to those, 

The story -telling bard of prose, 

Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales 

Of the Decameron, that make 

Fiesole's green hills and vale3 

Remembered for Boccaccio's sake. 

Much too of music was his thought ; 

The melodies and measures fraught 

With sunshine and the open air, 



THE WAYSIDE INK- 625 

Of vineyards and the singing sea 

Of his beloved Sicily ; 

And much it pleased him to peruse 

The songs of the Sicilian muse, — 

Bucolic songs by Meli sung 

In the familiar peasant tongue, 

That made men say, " Behold ! once more 

The pitying gods to earth restore 

Theocritus of Syracuse !" 

A Spanish Jew from Alicant, 

With aspect grand and grave, was there ; 

Vender of silks and fabrics rare, 

And attar of rose from the Levant. 

Like an old Patriarch he appeared, 

Abraham or Isaac, or at least 

Some later Prophet or High-Priest ; 

With lustrous eyes, and olive skin, 

And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chiu ? 

The tumbling cataract of his beard. 

His garments breathed a spicy scent 

Of cinnamon and sandal blent, 

Like the soft aromatic gales 

That meet the mariner, who sails 

Through the Moluccas, and the seas 

That wash the shores of Celebes. 

All stories that recorded are 

By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart, 

And it was rumoured he could say 

The Parables of Sandabar, 

And all the Fables of Pilpay, 

Or if not all, the greater part. 

Well versed was he in Hebrew books, 

Talmud and Targum, and the lore 

Of Kabala ; ancHevermore 

There was a mystery in his looks ; 

His eyes seemed gazing far away, 

As if in vision or in trance 

He heard the solemn sackbut play, 

And saw the Jewish maidens dance. 

A Theologian, from the school 

Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there ; 

Skilful alike with tongue and pen, 

He preached to all men everywhere 

The Gospel of the Golden Rule, 

The New Commandment given to men ; 

Thinking the deed, and not the creed, 

Would help us in our utmost need. 

With reverent feet the earth he trod, 

2L 



C2C TALES OF A WAYSIDE INK 

Nor banished nature from his plan, 
But studied still with deep research. 
To build the Universal Church, 
Lofty as is the love of God, 
And ample as the wants of man. 

A Poet, too, was there, whose verse 

Was tender, musical, and terse ; 

The inspiration, the delight, 

The gleam, the glory, the swift flight, 

Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem 

The revelations of a dream, 

All these were his ; but with them came 

No envy of another's fame; 

He did not find his sleep less sweet 

For music in some neighbouring street, 

Nor rustling hear in every breeze 

The laurels of Miltiades. 

Honour and blessings on his head 

While living, good report when dead, 

Who, not too eager for renown, 

Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown J 

Last the Musician, as he stood 

Illumined by that fire of wood ; 

Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, 

His figure tall and straight and lithe, 

And every feature of his face 

Revealing his Norwegian race ; 

A radiance, streaming from within/ 

Around his eyes and forehead beamed, 

The Angel with the violin, 

Painted by Raphael, he seemed. 

He lived in that ideal world 

Whose language is not speech, but song ; 

Around him evermore the throng 

Of elves and sprites their dances whirled ; 

The Stromkarl sang, the cataract hurled 

Its headlong waters from the height ; 

And mingled in the wild delight 

The scream of sea-birds in their flight, 

The rumour of the forest trees, 

The plunge of the implacable seas, 

The tumult of the wind at night, 

Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, 

Old ballads, and wild melodies 

Through mist and darkness pouring forth, 

Like Elivagar's river flowing 

Out of the glaciers of the North. 



THE WAYSLDE INN. 527 

The instrument on which he played 

Was in Cremona's workshops made, 

By a great master of the past, 

Ere yet was lost the art divine ; 

Fashioned of maple and of pine, 

That in Tyrolian forests vast 

Had rocked and wrestled with the blast : 

Exquisite was it in design, 

Perfect in each minutest part ; 

A marvel of the lutist's art, 

And in its hollow chamber, thus, 

The maker from whose hands it came 

Had written his unrivalled name, — 

a Antonius Stradivarius." 

And when he played, the atmosphere 
Was filled with magic, and the ear 
Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold, 
Whose music had so weird a sound, 
The hunted stag forgot to bound, 
The leaping rivulet backward rolled, 
The birds came down from bush and tree, 
The dead came from beneath the sea, 
The maiden to the harper's knee ! 

The music ceased ; the applause was loud, 
The pleased musician smiled and bowed ; 
The wood-fire clapped its hands of flame, 
The shadows on the wainscot stirred, 
And from the harpsichord there came 
A ghostly murmur of acclaim, 
A sound like that sent down at night 
By birds of passage in their flight, 
From the remotest distance heard. 

Then silence followed ; then began 
A clamour for the Landlord's tale, — 
The story promised them of old, 
They said, but always left untold ; 
And he, although a bashful man, 
And all his courage seemed to fail, 
Finding excuse of no avail, 
Yielded; and thus the story ran. 



528 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

THE LANDLORD'S TALE. 

PAUL REVERES RIDE. 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five ; 

Hardly a man is now alive 

Who remembers that famous day and year. 

He said to his friend, u If the British march 
By land or sea from the town to-night, 
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch 
Of the North Church tower as a signal light, — 
One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; 
And I on the opposite shore will be, 
Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and farm, 
For the country-folk to be up and to arm." 

Then he said, " Good night ! " and with muffled oar 

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 

Just as the moon rose over the bay, 

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 

The Somerset, British man-of-war; 

A phantom-ship, with each mast and spar 

Across the moon like a prison-bar, 

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified 

By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack-door, 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers, 
Marching down to their boats on the shore. 

Then he climbed to the tower of the church, 
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 
To the belfry-chamber overhead, 
And startled the pigeons from their perch 
On the sombre rafters, that round him made 
Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 
Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 
To the highest window in the wall, 
Where he paused to listen and look down 
A moment on the roofs of the town, 
And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 
In their night-encampment on the hill, 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. 529 

"Wrapped in silence so deep and still 

That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 

The watchful night-wind, as it went 

Creeping along from tent to tent, 

And seeming to whisper, " All is well ! " 

A moment only he feels the spell 

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 

Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 

On a shadowy something far away, 

Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 

A line of black that bends and floats 

On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 
Now he patted his horse's side, 
Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, 
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; 
But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, 
As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 
And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, 
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet ; 
That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the light 
The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 
And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight 
( Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

He has left the village and mounted the steep, 
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, 
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 
And under the alders, that skirt its edge, 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 

It was twelve by the village clock 

"When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 

He heard the crowing of the cock, 

And the barking of the farmer s dog, 



530 TALES OF A WAYSIDE TNN. 

And felt the damp of the river fog, 
That rises after the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village clock, 

When he galloped into Lexington. 

He saw the gilded weathercock 

Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare. 

Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village clock, 

When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock, 

And the twitter of birds among the trees, 

And felt the breath of the morning breeze 

Blowing over the meadows brown. 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed 

Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 

Who that day would be lying dead, 

Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you have read, 
How the British Eegulars fired and fled, — 
How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
From behind each fence and farmyard wall, 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Eevere; 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 

To every Middlesex village and farm, — 

A cry of defiance and not of fear, 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 

And a word that shall echo for evermore ! 

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 

Through all our history, to the last, 

In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 

The people will waken and listen to hear 

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, 

And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 

Interlude. 

The Landlord ended thus his tale, 
Then rising took down from its nail 
The sword that hung there, dim with dust. 
And cleaving to its sheath with rust, 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. 

And said, " This sword was in the fight." 
The Poet seized it, and exclaimed, 
" It is the sword of a good knight, 
Though homespun was his coat-of-mail; 
What matter if it be not named 
Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale, 
Excalibar, or Aroundight, 
Or other name the books record ? 
Your ancestor, who bore this sword 
As Colonel of the Volunteers, 
Mounted upon his old gray mare, 
Seen here and there and everywhere, 
To me a grander shape appears 
Than old Sir William, or what not, 
Clinking about in foreign lands 
With iron gauntlets on his hands, 
And on his head an iron pot ! " 

All laughed ; the Landlord's face grew red 
As his escutcheon on the wall ; 
He could not comprehend at all 
The drift of what the Poet said ; 
For those who had been longest dead 
Were always greatest in his eyes ; 
And he was speechless with surprise 
To see Sir William's plumed head 
Brought to a level with the rest, 
And made the subject of a jest, 

And this perceiving, to appease 

The Landlord's wrath, the others' fears, 

The Student said, with careless ease, 

" The ladies and the cavaliers, 

The arms, the loves, the courtesies, 

The deeds of high emprise, I sing ! 

Thus Ariosto says, in words 

That havexthe stately stride and ring 

Of armed knights and clashing swords. 

Now listen to the tale I bring ; 

Listen ! though not to me belong 

The flowing draperies of his song, 

The words that rouse, the voice that charms. 

The Landlord's tale was one of arms, 

Only a tale of love is mine, 

Blending the human and divine, 

A tale of the Decameron, told 

In Palmieri's garden old, 

By Fiametta, laurel-crowned, 

While her companions lay around, 

And heard the intermingled sound 



531 J 



532 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Of airs that on their errands sped, 
And wild birds gossiping overhead, 
And lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall, 
And her own voice more sweet than all, 
Telling the tale, which, wanting these, 
Perchance may lose its power to please." 



THE STUDENT'S TALE. 

THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 

One summer morning, when the sun was hot, 

Weary with labour in his garden plot, 

On a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves, 

Ser Federigo sat among the leaves 

Of a huge vine, that, with its arms outspread, 

Hung its delicious clusters overhead. 

Below him, through the lovely valley, flowed 

The river Arno, like a winding road, 

And from its banks were lifted high in air 

The spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair j 

To him a marble tomb, that rose above 

His wasted fortunes and his buried love. 

For there, in banquet and in tournament, 

His wealth had lavished been, his substance spent, 

To woo and lose, since ill his wooing sped, 

Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed, 

Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme, 

The ideal woman of a young man's dream. 

Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain, 

To this small farm, the last of his domain, 

His only comfort and his only care 

To prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear ; 

His only forester and only guest 

His falcon, faithful to him, when the rest, 

Whose willing hands had found so light of yore 

The brazen knocker of his palace door, 

Had now no strength to lift the wooden latch, 

That entrance gave beneath a roof of thatch. 

Companion of his solitary ways, 

Purveyor of his feasts on holidays, 

On him this melancholy man bestowed 

The love with which his nature overflowed. 

And so the empty-handed years went round, 
Vacant, though voicef ul with prophetic sound ; 
And so, that summer morn, he sat and mused 
With folded, patient hands, as he was used, 



THE FALCON OF SEE FEDERIGO. 

And dreamily before his half -closed sight 
Floated the vision of his lost delight. 
Beside him, motionless, the drowsy bird 
Dreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heard 
The sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that dare 
The headlong plunge through eddying gulfs of air, 
Then, starting broad awake upon his perch, 
Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a church, 
And, looking at his master, seemed to say, 
" Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day ? " 

Ser Federigo thought not of the chase ; 

The tender vision of her lovely face, 

I will not say he seems to see, he sees 

In the leaf-shadows of the trellises, 

Herself, yet not herself ; a lovely child 

With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and wild, 

Coming undaunted up the garden walk, 

And looking not at him, but at the hawk. 

" Beautiful falcon ! " said he, " would that I 

Might hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly ! "' 

The voice was hers, and made strange echoes start 

Through all the haunted chambers of his heart, 

As an seolian harp through gusty doors 

Of some old ruin its wild music pours. 

" Who is thy mother, my fair boy?" he saicL, 
His hand laid softly on that shining head. 
u Monna Giovanna. — Will you let me stay 
A little while, and with your falcon play ? 
We live there, just beyond your garden wall, 
In the great house behind the poplars tall." 

So he spake on ; and Federigo heard 
As from afar each softly uttered word, 
And drifted onward through the golden gleams 
And shadows of the misty sea of dreams, 
As mariners becalmed through vapours drift, 
And feel the sea beneath them sink and lift, 
And hear far off the mournful breakers roar, 
And voices calling faintly from the shore ! 
Then, waking from his pleasant reveries, 
He took the little boy upon his knees, 
And told him stories of his gallant bird, 
Till in their friendship he became a third. 

Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime, 
Had come with friends to pass the summer time 
In her grand villa, half-way up the hill, 
O'erlooking Florence, but retired and still ; 
With iron gates, that opened through long lines 



533 



534 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Of sacred ilex and centennial pines, 

And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone, 

And sylvan deities, with moss o'ergrown, 

And fountains palpitating in the heat, 

And all Val d'Arno stretched beneath its feet. 

Here in seclusion, as a widow may, 

The lovely lady whiled the hours away, 

Pacing in sable robes the statued hall, 

Herself the stateliest statue among all, 

And seeing more and more, with secret joy, 

Her husband risen and living in her boy, 

Till the lost sense of life returned again, 

Not as delight, but as relief from pain. 

Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength, 
Stormed down the terraces from length to length ; 
The screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit, 
And climbed the garden trellises for fruit. 
But his chief pastime was to watch the flight 
Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight, 
Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall, 
Then downward stooping at some distant call ; 
And as he gazed full often wondered he 
Who might the master of the falcon be, 
Until that happy morning, when he found 
Master and falcon in the cottage ground. 

And now a shadow and a terror fell 

On the great house, as if a passing-bell 

Tolled from the tower, and filled each spacious room 

With secret awe, and preternatural gloom; 

The petted boy grew ill, and day by day 

Pined with mysterious malady away. 

The mother's heart would not be comforted ; 

Her darling seemed to her already dead, 

And often, sitting by the sufferer's side, 

" What can I do to comfort thee ? " she cried. 

At first the silent lips made no reply, 

But, moved at length by her importunate cry, 

" Give me," he answered, with imploring tone, 

" Ser Federigo's falcon for my own ! " 

No answer could the astonished mother make ; 
How could she ask, e'en for her darling's sake, 
Such favour at a luckless lover's hand, 
Well knowing that to ask was to command ? 
Well knowing, what all falconers confessed, 
In all the land that falcon was the best, 
The master's pride and passion and delight, 
And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight. 



THE FALCON OF SEE EEDEEIGO. 



535 



But yet, for her child's sake, she could no less 
Than give assent, to soothe his restlessness, 
So promised, and then promising to keep 
Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep. 

The morrow was a bright September morn ; 

The earth was beautiful as if new-born ; 

There was that nameless splendour everywhere, 

That wild exhilaration in the air, 

Which makes the passers in the city street 

Congratulate each other as they meet. 

Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood, 

Passed through the garden gate into the wood, 

Under the lustrous leaves, and through the sheen 

Of dewy sunshine showering down between. 

The one, close-hooded, had the attractive grace 

Which sorrow sometimes lends a woman's face ; 

Her dark eyes moistened with the mists that roll 

From the gulf-stream of passion in the soul ; 

The other with her hood thrown back, her hair 

Making a golden glory in the air, 

Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush, 

Her young heart singing louder than the thrush. 

So walked, that morn, through mingled light and shade. 

Each by the other's presence lovelier made, 

Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend, 

Intent upon their errand and its end. 

They found Ser Federigo at his toil, 

Like banished Adam, delving in the soil ; 

And when he looked and these fair women spied, 

The garden suddenly was glorified ; 

His long-lost Eden was restored again, 

And the strange river winding through the plain 

No longer was the Arno to his eyes, 

But the Euphrates watering Paradise ! 

Monna Giovanna raised her stately head, 

And with fair words of salutation said : 

" Ser Federigo, we come here as friends, 

Hoping in this to make some poor amends 

For past unkindness. I who ne'er before 

Would even cross the threshold of your door, 

I who in happier days such pride maintained, 

Refused your banquets, and your gifts disdained, 

This mornings come, a self-invited guest, 

To put your generous nature to the test, 

And breakfast with you under your own vine.' 7 

To which he answered : u Poor desert of mine, 

Not your unkindness call it, for if aught 

Is good in me of feeling or of thought, 



536 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

From you it comes, and this last grace outweighs 
All sorrows, all regrets of other days." 

And after further compliment and talk, 

Among the dahlias in the garden walk 

He left his guests ; and to his cottage turned, 

And as he entered for a moment yearned 

For the lost splendours of the days of old, 

The ruby glass, the silver and the gold, 

And felt how piercing is the sting of pride, 

By want embittered and intensified. 

He looked about him for some means or way 

To keep this unexpected holiday ; 

Searched every cupboard, and then searched again, 

Summoned the maid, who came, but came in vain ; 

" The Signor did not hunt to-day," she said, 

" There 's nothing in the house but wine and bread." 

Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook 

His little bells, with that sagacious look, 

Which said, as plain as language to the ear, 

" If anything is wanting, I am here !" 

Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird ! 

The master seized thee without further word, 

Like thine own lure, he whirled thee round ; ah me 1 

The pomp and flutter of brave falconry, 

The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet hood, 

The flight and the pursuit o'er field and wood, 

All these f orevermore are ended now ; 

"No longer victor, but the victim thou ! 

Then on the board a snow-white cloth he spread, 
Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread, 
Brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine hot, 
The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot : 
Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed, 
And with autumnal flowers the banquet graced. 
Ser Federigo, would not these suffice 
Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice ? 

When all was ready, and the courtly dame 

With her companion to the cottage came, 

Upon Ser Federigo's brain there fell 

The wild enchantment of a magic spell ; 

The room they entered, mean and low and small, 

Was changed into a sumptuous banquet-hall, 

With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown ; 

The rustic chair she sat on was a throne ; 

He ate celestial food, and a divine 

Flavour was given to his country wine, 



THE FALCON OF SEE, FEDERIGO. 

And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice, 
A peacock was, or bird of paradise ! 

When the repast was ended, they arose 
And passed again into the garden-close. 
Then said the lady, " Far too well I know, 
Remembering still the days of long ago, 
Though you betray it not, with what surprise 
You see me here in this familiar wise. 
You have no children, and you cannot guess 
What anguish, what unspeakable distress 
A mother feels, whose child is lying ill, 
Nor how her heart anticipates his will. 
And yet for this you see me lay aside 
All womanly reserve and check of pride, 
And ask the thing most precious in your sight, 
Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight, 
Which if you find it in your heart to give, 
My poor, unhappy boy perchance may live." 

Ser Federigo listens, and replies, 
With tears of love and pity in his eyes : 
" Alas, dear lady ! there can be no task 
So sweet to me, as giving when you ask. 
One little hour ago, if I had known 
This wish of yours, it would have been my own. 
But thinking in what manner I could best 
Do honour to the presence of my guest, 
I deemed that nothing worthier could be 
Than what most dear and precious was to me. 
And so my gallant falcon breathed his last 
To furnish forth this morning our repast," 

In mute contrition, mingled with dismay, 
The gentle lady turned her eyes away, 
Grieving that he such sacrifice should make, 
And kill his falcon for a woman's sake, 
Yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride, 
That nothing she could ask for was denied; 
Then took her leave, and passed out at the gate 
With footstep slow and soul disconsolate. 

Three days went by, and lo ! a passing-bell 
Tolled from the little chapel in the dell ; 
Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said, 
Breathing a prayer, " Alas ! her child is dead !" 

Three months went by ; and lo ! a merrier chime 
Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas time : 
The cottage was deserted, and no more 
Ser Federigo sat beside its door, 



537 



538 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN, 

But now, with servitors to do his will, 

In the grand villa, half-way up the hill, 

Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side 

Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride, 

Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair, 

Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair, 

High-perched upon the back of which there stood 

The image of a falcon carved in wood, 

And underneath the inscription, with a date, 

u All things come round to him who will but wait.' 

Interlude. 

Soon as the story reached its end, 
One, over eager to commend, 
Crowned it with injudicious praise ; 
And then the voice of blame found vent, 
And fanned the embers of dissent 
Into a somewhat lively blaze. 

The Theologian shook his head ; 

" These old Italian tales," he said, 

u From the much-praised Decameron down 

Through all the rabble of the rest, 

Are either trifling, dull, or lewd j 

The gossip of a neighbourhood 

In some remote provincial town, 

A scandalous chronicle at best ! 

They seem to me a stagnant fen, 

Grown rank with rushes and with reeds, 

Where a white lily, now and then, 

Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds 

And deadly nightshade on its banks.' ' 

To this the Student straight replied : 

" For the white lily, many thanks I 

One should not say, with too much pride, 

Fountain, I will not drink of thee ! 

Nor were it grateful to forget, 

That from these reservoirs and tanks 

Even imperial Shakespeare drew 

His Moor of Venice and the Jew, 

And Romeo and Juliet, 

And many a famous comedy." 

Then a long pause ; till some one said, 
" An angel is flying overhead ! " 
At these words spake the Spanish Jew, 
And murmured with an inward breath : 
" God grant, if what you say is true, 
It may not be the Angel of Death ! " 



THE LEGEND OF KABBI BEN LEVI. 

And then another pause ; and then, 

Stroking his beard, he said again : 

" This brings back to my memory 

A story in the Talmud told, 

That book of gems, that book of gold, 

Of wonders many and manifold, 

A tale that often comes to me, 

And fills my heart, and haunts my brain, 

And never wearies nor grows old." 



4339 



, THE SPANISH JEWS TALE. 

THE LEGEND OF KABBI BEN LEVL 

Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read 

A volume of the Law, in which it said, 

" !No man shall look upon my face and live." 

And as he read, he prayed that God would give 

His faithful servant grace with mortal eye 

To look upon His face and yet not die. 

Then fell a sudden shadow on the page, 

And, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with age, 

He saw the Angel of Death before him stand, 

Holding a naked sword in his right hand. 

Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man, 

Yet through his veins a chill of terror ran. 

With trembling voice he said, " What wilt thou here ? " 

The Angel answered, " Lo ! the time draws near 

When thou must die ; yet first, by God's decree, 

Whate'er thou askest shall be granted thee." 

Replied the Rabbi, " Let these living eyes 

First look upon my place in Paradise." 

Then said the Angel, " Come with me and look." 

Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book, 

And rising, and uplifting his gray head, 

" Give me thy sword," he 'to the Angel said, 

" Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the way." 

The Angel smiled and hastened to obey, 

Then led him forth to the Celestial Town, 

And set him on the wall, whence, gazing down, - 

Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes, 

Might look upon his place in Paradise. 

Then straight into the city of the Lord 
The Rabbi leaped with the Death- Angel's sword, 
And through the streets there swept a sudden breath 
Of something there unknown, which men call death. 



540 TALES OF A "WAYSIDE IN2T. 

Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, and cried, 
" Come back ! " To which the Rabbi's voice replied, 
w No ! in the name of God, whom I adore, 
I swear that hence I will depart no more ! " 

Then all the Angels cried, " Holy One, 
See what the son of Levi here has done ! 
The kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence, 
And in Thy name refuses to go hence ! " 
The Lord replied, " My Angels, be not wroth ; 
Did e'er the son of Levi break his oath ? 
Let him remain ; for he with mortal eye 
Shall look upon my face and yet not die/' 

Beyond the outer wall the Angel of Death 

Heard the great voice, and said, with panting breath, 

" Give back the sword, and let me go my way." 

Whereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, " Nay ! 

Anguish enough already has it caused 

Among the sons of men." And while he paused 

He heard the awful mandate of the Lord 

Resounding through the air, " Give back the sword ! 

The Rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer ; 
Then said he to the dreadful Angel, " Swear, 
No human eye shall look on it again ; 
But when thou takest away the souls of men, 
Thyself unseen, and with an unseen sword, 
Thou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord." 

The Angel took the sword again, and swore, 
And walks on earth unseen forevermore. 

Interlude. 

He ended : and a kind of spell 

Upon the silent listeners fell. 

His solemn manner and his words 

Had touched the deep, mysterious chords. 

That vibrate in each human breast 

Alike, but not alike confessed. 

The spiritual world seemed near ; 

And close above them, full of fear, 

Its awful adumbration passed, 

A luminous shadow, vague and vast. 

They almost feared to look, lest there, 

Embodied from the impalpable air, 

They might behold the Angel stand, 

Holding the sword in his right hani. 

At last, but in a voice subdued, 
Not to disturb their dreamy mood, 



KIXG KOBEET OF SICILY. 

Said the Sicilian : " While you spoke, 

Telling your legend marvellous, 

Suddenly in my memory woke 

The thought of one, now gone from us,- 

An old Abate, meek and mild, 

My friend and teacher, when a child, 

Who sometimes in those days of old 

The legend of an Angel told, 

Which ran, if I remember, thus.'* 



541 



THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 

KIXG ROBERT OF SICILY. 

Eobert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 

And Valniond, Emperor of Allemaine, 

Apparelled in magnificent attire, 

With retinue of many a knight and squire, 

On St John's Eve, at vespers, proudly sat 

And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. 

And as he listened, o'er and o'er again 

Repeated, like a burden or refrain, 

He caught the words, " Deposuit potentes 

De sede, et exaltavit Tiumiles ; " 

And slowly lifting up his kingly head, 

He to a learned clerk beside him said, 

rt What mean these words ? " The clerk made answer meet, 

" He has put down the mighty from their seat, 

And has exalted them of low degree." 

Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, 

" 'Tis well that such seditious words are sung 

Only by priests and in the Latin tongue ; 

For unto priests and people be it known, 

There is no powder can push me from my throne I " 

And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, 

Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. 

When he awoke, it was already night ; 

The church was empty, and there was no light, 

Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and fair_b, 

Lighted a little space before some saint. 

He started from his seat and gazed around, 

But saw no living thing and heard no sound. 

He groped towards the door, but it was locked ; 

He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, 

And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, 

And imprecations upon men and saints. 

The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls 

As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls ' 



2 M 



j 542 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

At length, the sexton, hearing from without 
The tumult of the knocking and the shout, 
And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, 
Came with his lantern, asking, " Who is there ? " 
Half -choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, 
" Open : 'tis I, the King ! Art thou afraid? " 
The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, 
" This is some drunken vagabond, or worse ! " 
Turned the great key and flung the portal wide ; 
A man rushed by him at a single stride, 
Haggard, half- naked, without hat or cloak, 
Who neither turned, nor looked at hirn, nor spoke, 
But leaped into the blackness of the night, 
And vanished like a spectre from his sight. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
Despoiled of his magnificent attire, 
Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire, 
With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, 
Strode on and thundered at the palace gate ; 
Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage 
To right and left each seneschal and page, 
And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, 
His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. 
From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed ; 
Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, 
Until at last he reached the banquet-room, 
Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. 
There on the dais sat another king, 
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring. 
King Robert's self in features, form, and height, 
But all transfigured with angelic light ! 
It was an Angel ; and his presence there 
With a divine effulgence filled the air, 
An exaltation, piercing the disguise, 
Though none the hidden Angel recognise, 

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, 

The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, 

Who met his looks of anger and surprise 

With the divine compassion of his eyes ; 

Then said, " Who art thou ? and why com'st thou here ? " 

To which King Robert answered, with a sneer, 

" I am the King, and come to claim my own 

From an impostor, who usurps my throne ! " 

And suddenly, at these audacious words, 

Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords ; 

The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, 



KIXG KOBEKT OF SICILY. 543 

" Nay, not the King, but the King's jester ; thou 
Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape, 
And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape ; 
Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, 
And wait upon my henchmen in the hall ! " 

Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers, 

They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs ; 

A group of tittering pages ran before, 

And as they opened wide the folding-door, 

His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, 

The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, 

And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring 

With the mock plaudits of " Long live the King ! " 

Next morning, waking with the day's first beam, 
He said within himself, u It was a dream! " 
But the straw rustled as he turned his head, 
There were the cap and bells beside his bed, 
Around him rose the bare, discoloured walls, 
Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, 
And in the corner, a revolting shape, 
Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. 
It was no dream ; the world he loved so much 
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch ! 

Days came and went ; and now returned again 

To Sicily the old Saturnian reign ; 

Under the Angel's governance benign 

The happy island danced with corn and wine, 

And deep within the mountain's burning breast 

Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. 

Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, 

Sullen and silent and disconsolate. 

Dressed in the motley garb chat jesters wear, 

"With looks bewildered and a vacant stare, 

Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shore, 

By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, 

His only friend the ape, his only food 

What others left, — he still was unsubdued. 

And when the Angel met him on his way, % 

And half in earnest, half in jest, would say, 

Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel 

The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, 

" Art thou the King V the passion of his woe 

Burst from him in resistless overflow, 

And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling 

The haughty answer back, " I am, I am the King !" 

Almost three years were ended ; when there came 
Ambassadors of great repute and name 



544 TALES OF A "WAYSIDE INN. 

From Yalmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 

Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane 

By letter summoned them forthwith to come 

On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. 

The Angel with great joy received his guests, 

And gave them presents of embroidered vests, 

And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, 

And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. 

Then he departed with them o'er the sea 

Into the lovely land of Italy, 

Whose loveliness was more resplendent made 

By the mere passing of that cavalcade, 

VVith plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir 

Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. 

And lo ! among the menials, in mock state, 

Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, 

His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, 

The solemn ape demurely perched behind, 

King Robert rode, making huge merriment 

In all the country towns through which they wont. 

The Pope received them with great pomp, and blare 

Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square, 

Giving his benediction and embrace, 

Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. 

While with congratulations and with prayers 

He entertained the Angel unawares, 

Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd, 

Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, 

" I am the King ! Look, and behold in me 

Robert, your brother, King of Sicily ! 

This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, 

Is an impostor in a king's disguise. 

Do you not know me ? does no voice within 

Answer my cry, and say we are akin ? " 

The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, 

Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene ; 

The Emperor, laughing, said, " It is strange sport 

To keep a madman for thy Fool at court ! " 

And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace 

Was hustled back among the populace. 

In solemn state the Holy Week went by, 
And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky ; 
The presence of the Angel, with its light, 
Before the sun rose, made the city bright, 
And with new fervour filled the hearts of men, 
Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. 
Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, 



KING EOBERT OF SICILY. 

With haggard eyes the unwonted splendour saw 

He felt within a- power unfelt before, 

And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, 

He heard the rushing garments of the Lord 

Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. 

And now the visit ending, and once more 

Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, 

Homeward the angel journeyed, and again 

The land was made resplendent with his train. 

Flashing along the towns of Italy 

Unto Salerno, and from there by sea. 

And when once more within Palermo's wall, 

And, seated on the throne in his great hall, 

He heard the Angelus from convent towers, 

As if the better world conversed with ours, 

He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, 

And with a gesture bade the rest retire ; 

And when they were alone, the Angel said, 

" Art thou the King? " Then bowing down his head, 

King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, 

And meekly answered him : " Thou knowest best 1 

My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence, 

And in some cloister's school of penitence, 

Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven, 

Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven ! ° 

The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face 

A holy light illumined all the place, 

And through the open window, loud and clear, 

They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, 

Above the stir and tumult of the street : 

" He has put down the mighty from their seat, 

And has exalted them of low degree ! " 

And through the chant a second melody 

Rose like the throbbing of a single string : 

" I am an Angel, and thou art the King ! " 

King Robert, who was standing near the throne, 

Lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone ! 

But all apparelled as in days of old, 

With crmined mantle and with cloth of gold; 

And when his courtiers came, they found him there 

Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. 

Interlude. 

And then the blue-eyed Norseman told 
A Saga of the days of old. 
" There is," said he, " a wondrous book 
Of Legends in the old Norse tongue, 



545 



546 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Of the dead kings of Norroway, — 
Legends that once were told or sung 
In many a smoky fireside nook 
Of Iceland, in the ancient day, 
By wandering Saga-man or Scald; 
Heimskringla is the volume called ; 
And he who looks may find therein 
The story that I now begin." 
And in each pause the story made 
Upon his violin he played, 
As an appropriate interlude, 
Fragments of old Norwegian tunes 
That bound in one the separate runes, 
And held the mind in perfect mood, 
Entwining and encircling all 
The strange and antiquated rhymes 
"With melodies of olden times ; 
As over some half-ruined wall, 
Disjointed and about to fall, 
Fresh woodbines climb and interlace, 
And keep the loosened stones in place. 



THE MUSICIAN'S TALIS. 
The Saga of King Oiaf. 

i. 

the challenge op thok. 

I am the God Thor, 
I am the War God, 
I am the Thunderer \ 
Here in my Northland, 
My fastness and fortress* 
Reign I for ever ! 

Here amid icebergs 
Rule I the nations; 
This is my hammer, 
Miolner the mighty ; 
Giants and sorcerers 
Cannot withstand it ! 

These are the gauntlets 
Wherewith I wield it, 
And hurl it afar off; 
^ This is my girdle ; 
Whenever 1 brace it, 
Strength is redoubled! 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 

The light thou belioldest 
Stream through the heavens, 
In flashes of crimson, 
Is but my red beard 
Blown by the night-wind, 
Affrighting the nations ! 

Jove is my brother ; 
Mine eyes are the lightning; 
The wheels of my chariot 
Roll in the thunder, 
The blows of my hammer 
Ring in the earthquake ! 

Force rules the world still, 
Has ruled it, shall" rule it; 
Meekness is weakness, 
Strength is triumphant, 
Over the whole earth 
Still is it Thor's-Day ! 

Thou art a God too, 
Galilean ! 

And thus single-handed 
Unto the combat, 
Gauntlet or Gospel, 
Here I defy thee ! 



547 



KIXG OLAF S RETURN, 

A^ T D King Olaf heard the cry, 
Saw the red light in the sky, 

Laid his hand upon his sword, 
As he leaned upon the railing, 
And his ships went sailing, sailing, 

Northward into Drontheim fiord. 

There he stood as one who dreamed ; 
And the red light glanced and gleamed 

On the armour that he wore; 
And he shouted, as the rifted 
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, 

" I accept thy challenge, Thor ! " 

To avenge his father slain, 
And reconquer realm and reign, 

Came the youthful Olaf home, 
Through the midnight sailing, sailing, 
Listening to the wild wind's wailing, 

And the dashing of the foam. 



548 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

To his thoughts the sacred name 
Of his mother Astrid came, 

And the tale she oft had told 
Of her flight by secret passes 
Through the mountains and morasses, 

To the home of Hakon old. 

Then strange memories crowded back 
Of Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack, 

And a hurried flight by sea ; 
Of grim Vikings, and their rapture 
In the sea-fight, and the capture, 

And the life of slavery. 

How a stranger watched his face 
In the Esthonian market-place, 

Scanned his features one by one, 
Saying, "We should know each other; 
I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother, 

Thou art Olaf, Astrid's son ! * 

Then as Queen- Allogia's page, 
Old in honours, young in age, 

Chief of all her men-at-arms ; 
Till vague whispers, and mysterious, 
Reached King Valdemar, the imperious, 

Filling him with strange alarms. 

Then his cruisings o'er the seas, 
"Westward to the Hebrides, 

And to Scilly's rocky shore ; 
And the hermit's cavern dismal, 
Christ's great name and rites baptismal, 

In the ocean's rush and roar. 

All these thoughts of love and strife 
Glimmered through his lurid life, 

As the stars' intenser light 
Through the red flames o'er him trailing, 
As his ships went sailing, sailing, 

Northward in the summer night. 

Trained for either camp or court, 
Skilful in each manly sport, 

Young and beautiful and tall : 
Art of warfare, craft of chases, 
Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races, 

Excellent alike in all. 

"When at sea, with all his rowerb, 
He along the bending oars 
Outside of his ship could run. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 

He the Sinalsor Horn ascended, 
And his shining shield suspended 
On its summit, like a sun. 

On the ship-rails he could stand, 
Wield his sword with either hand, 

And at once two javelins throw; 
At all feasts where ale was strongest 
Sat the merry monarch longest, 

First to come and last to go. 

Norway never yet had seen 
One scTbeautiful of mien, 

One so royal in attire, 
When in arms completely furnished, 
Harness gold-inlaid and burnished, 

Mantle like a flame of fire. 

Thus came Olaf to his own, 
When upon the night-wind blown 

Passed that cry along the shore ; 
And he answered, while the rifted 
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, 

" I accept thy challenge, Thor ! " 



549 



THORA OF RDIOL. 

" Thora of Rimol ! hide me ! hide me ! 

Danger and shame and death betide me ! 

For Olaf the king is hunting me down 

Through field and forest, through thorp and town I ' 

Thus cried Jarl Hakon 

To Thora, the fairest of women. 

" Hakon Jarl ! for the love I bear thee 
Neither shall shame nor death come near thee ! 
But the hiding-place wherein thou must lie 
Is the cave underneath the swine in the sty." 

Thus to Jarl Hakon 

Said Thora, the fairest of women. 

So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall Karker 
Crouched in the cave, than a dungeon darker, 
As Olaf came riding, with men in mail, 
Through the forest roads into Orkadale, 

Demanding Jarl Hakon 

Of Thora, the fairest of women, 

" Rich and honoured shall be whoever 
The head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever I " 



550 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Hakon heard him, and Karker the slave, 
Through the breathing-boles of the darksome cave. 
Alone in her chamber 
"Wept Thora, the fairest of women. 

Said Karker, the crafty, " I will not slay thee ! 
For all the King's gold I will never betray thee ! " 
" Then why dost thou turn so pale, churl, 
And then again black as the earth? " said the Earl. 
More pale and more faithful 
Was Thora, the fairest of women. 

From a dream in the night the thrall started, saying, 
" Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf was laying ! " 
And Hakon answered, " Beware of the King ! 
He will lay round thy neck a blood-red ring," 
At the ring on her finger 
Gazed Thora, the fairest of women. 

At daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows encumbered, 
But screamed and drew up his feet as he slumbered ; 
The thrall in the darkness plunged with his knife, 
And the Earl awakened no more in this life. 
But wakeful and weeping 
Sat Thora, the fairest of women. 

At Mdarholm the priests are all singing, 
Two ghastly heads on the gibbet are swinging ; 
One is Jarl Hakon's and one is his thrall's, 
And the people are shouting from windows and walls; 
While alone in her chamber 
Swoons Thora, the fairest of women. 



QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY. 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft 

In her chamber, that looked over meadow and croft. 

Heart's dearest, 

Why dost thou sorrow so ? 

The floor with tasiels of fir was besprent, 
Filling the room with their fragrant scent. 

She heard the birds sing, she saw the sun shine, 
The air of summer was sweeter than wine. 

Like a sword without scabbard the bright river lay 
Between her own kingdom and Norroway. 

But Olaf the King had sued for her hand, 

The sword would be sheathed, the river be spanned. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 551 

Her maidens were seated around her knee, 
Working bright figures in tapestry. 

And one was singing the ancient rune 

Of Brynhiida's love and the wrath of Gudrun. 

And through it, and round it, and over it all 
Sounded incessant the waterfall. 

The Queen in her hand held a ring of gold, 
From the door of Lade's Temple old. 

King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift, 

But her thoughts as arrows were keen and swift. 

She had given the ring to her goldsmiths twain, 
Who smiled as they handed it back again. 

And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty way, 
Said, " Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, say? " 

And they answered : " Queen ! if the truth must be told. 
The ring is of copper, and not of gold ! " 

The lightning flashed o'er her forehead and cheek, 
She only murmured, she did not speak : 

" If in his gifts he can faithless be, 
There will be no gold in his love to me." 

A footstep was heard on the outer stair, 
And in strode King Olaf with royal air. 

He kissed the Queen's hand, and he whispered of love, 
And swore to be true ao the stars are above. 

But she smiled with contempt as she answered : " King, 
Will you swear it, as Odin once swore, on the ring? " 

And the King : " speak not of Odin to me, 
The wife of King Olaf a Christian must be." 

Looking straight at the King, with her level brows, 
She said, " I keep true to my faith and my vows." 

Then the face of King Olaf was darkened with gloom, 
He rose in his anger and strode through the room. 

" Why, then, should I care to have thee ? " he said, — 
" A faded old woman, a heathenish jade ! " 

His zeal was stronger than fear or love, 

And he struck the Queen in the face with his glove. 

Then forth from the chamber in anger he fled, 
And the wooden stairway shook with his tread. 



552 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Queen Sigrid the Hanghtv said under her breath, 
"This insult* King Olaf, shall be thy death ! M 

Heart's dearest, 

"Why dost thou sorrow so ? 

V. 

THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS. 

Now from all King Olaf s farms 

His men-at-arms 
Gathered on the Eve of Easter ; 
To his house at Angvalds-ness 

Fast they press, 
Drinking with the royal feaster, 

Loudly through the wide-flung door 

Came the roar 
Of the sea upon the Skerry ; 
And its thunder loud and near 

Reached the ear, 
Mingling with their voices merry. 

" Hark ! " said Olaf to his Scald, 

Halfred the Bald, 
" Listen to that song, and learn it 1 
Half my kingdom would I give, 

As I live, 
If by such songs you would earn it! 

" For of all the runes and rhymes 
**■ Of all times, 

Best I like the ocean's dirges, 

When the old harper heaves and rocks, 

His hoary locks 
Flowing and flashing in the surges ! " 

Halfred answered : "lam called 

The Unappalled ! 
Nothing hinders me or daunts me. 
Hearken to me, then, King, 

While I sing 
-The great Ocean Song that haunts me." 

" I will hear your song sublime 

Some other time," 
Says the drowsy monarch, yawning, 
And retires ; each laughing guest 

Applauds the jest ; 
Then they sleep till day is dawning. 

Pacing up and down the yard, 
King Olaf's guard 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 

Saw the sea-mist slowly creeping 
O'er tlie sands, and up the hill, 

Gathering still 
Round the house where they were sleeping. 

It was not the fog he saw, 

Nor misty flaw, 
That above the landscape brooded ; 
It was Eyvind Kallda's crew 

Of warlocks blue, 
With their caps of darkness hooded ! 

Round and round the house they go, 

Weaving slow 
Magic circles to encumber 
And imprison in their ring 

Olaf the King, 
As he helpless lies in slumber. 

Then athwart the vapours dun 

The Easter sun 
Streamed with one broad track of splendour ! 
In their real forms appeared 

The warlocks weird, 
Awful as the Witch of Endor. 

Blinded by the light that glared, 

They groped and stared 
Round about with steps unsteady ; 
From his window Olaf gazed, 

And, amazed, 
" Who are these strange people? " said he, 

" Eyvind Kallda and his men ! " 

Answered then 
From the yard a sturdy farmer; 
While the men-at-arms apace 

Filled the place, 
Busily buckling on their armour. 

From the gates they sallied forth, 

South and north, 
Scoured the island coasts around them, 
Seizing all the warlock band, 

Foot and hand 
On the Skerry's rocks they bound them. 

And at eve the King again 

Called his train, 
And, with all the candles burning, 
Silent sat and heard once more 

The sullen roar 
Of the ocean tides returning. 



553 



654 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Shrieks and cries of wild despair 

Filled the air, 
Growing fainter as they listened ; 
Then the bursting surge alone 

Sounded on; — 
Thus the sorcerers were christened ! 

" Sing, Scald, your song sublime, 
Your ocean-rhyme," 

Cried King Olaf : " it will cheer me ! " 

Said the Scald, with pallid cheeks, 
" The Skerry of Shrieks 

Sings too loud for you to hear me!" 



THE WRAITH OF ODIN. 

The guests were loud, the ale was strong, 
King Olaf feasted late and long ; 
The hoary Scalds together sang ; 
O'erhead the smoky rafters rang. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The door swung wide, with creak and din ; 
A blast of cold night-air came in, 
And on the threshold shivering stood 
A one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The King exclaimed, " graybeard pale I 
Come warm thee with this cup of ale." 
The foaming draught the old man quaffed, 
The noisy guests looked on and laughed. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Then spake the King : " Be not afraid; 
Sit here by me." The guest obeyed, 
And, seated at the table, told 
Tales of the sea, and Sagas old. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

And ever, when the tale was o'er, 
The King demanded yet one more ; 
Till Sigurd the Bishop smiling said, 
" 'Tis late, King, and time for bed." 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The King retired; the stranger guest 
Followed and entered with the rest; 
The lights were out, the pages gone, 
But still the garrulous guest spake on. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 

As one who from a volume reads, 
He spake of heroes and their deeds, 
Of lands and cities he had seen, 
And stormy gulfs that tossed between. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Then from his lips in music rolled 
The Havamal of Odin old, 
With sounds mysterious as the roar 
Of billows on a distant shore. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

" Do we not learn from runes and rhymes 
Made by the gods in elder times, 
And do not still the great Scalds teach 
That silence better is than speech ? " 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Smiling at this, the King replied, 
" Thy lore is by thy tongue belied; 
For never was I so enthralled 
Either by Saga.-man or Scald." 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The Bishop said, " Late hours we keep ! 
Night wanes, King ! 'tis time for sleep ! ' 
Then slept the King, and when he woke 
The guest was gone, the morning broke. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Tbey found the doors securely barred, 
They found the watch-dog in the yard, 
There was no footprint in the grass, 
And none had seen the stranger pass. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

King Olaf crossed himself and said : 
" I know that Odin the Great is dead ; 
Sure is the triumph of our Faith, 
The one-eyed stranger was his wraith." 
Dead lides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 



555 



VII. 
IRON-BEARD. 

Olaf the King, one summer mora, 
Blew a blast on his bugle-horn, 
Sending his signal through the land of Drontheim. 

And to the Hus-Ting held at Mere 

Gathered the farmers far and near, 

With their war weapons ready to confront him. 



550 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Ploughing under the morning star, 
Old Jron- Beard in Yriar 
Heard the summons, chuckling with a low laugh. 

He wiped the sweat-drops from his brow, 

Unharnessed his horses from the plough, 

And clattering came on horseback to King Olaf. 

He was the churliest of the churls ; 
Little he cared for king or earls ; 
Bitter as home-brewed ale were his foaming passions. 

Hodden-gray was the garb he wore, 
And by the Hammer of Thor he swore ; 
He hated the narrow town, and all its fashions. 

But he loved the freedom of his farm, 

His ale at night, by the fireside warm, 

Gudrun his daughter, with her flaxen tresses. 

He loved his horses and his herds, 
The smell of the earth, and the song of birds, 
His well-filled barns, his brook with its watercresses. 

Huge and cumbersome was his frame ; 
His beard, from which he took his name, 
Frosty and fierce, like that of Hymer the Giant. 

So at the Hus-Ting he appeared, 

The farmer of Yriar, Iron-Beard, 

On horseback, with an attitude defiant. 

And to King Olaf he cried aloud, 
Out of the middle of the crowd, 
That tossed about him like a stormy ocean : 

u Such sacrifices shalt thou bring, 
To Odin and to Thor, King, 
As other kings have done in their devotion ! " 

King Olaf answered : " I command 
This land to be a Christian land ; 
Here is my Bishop who the folk baptizes ! 

" But if you ask me to restore 
Your sacrifices, stained with gore, 
Then will I offer human sacrifices ! 

" Not slaves and peasants shall they bo, 
But men of note and high degree, 
Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of Gryting ! " 

Then to their Temple strode he in. 
And loud behind him heard the din 
Of his men-at-arms and the peasants fiercely fighting. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. &ffl 

There in the Temple, carved in wood, 
The image of great Odin stood, 
And other gods, with Thor supreme among them. 

King Olaf smote them with the blade 
Of his huge war-axe, gold-inlaid, 
And downward shattered to the pavement flung them. 

At the same moment rose without, 
From the contending crowd, a shout, 
A mingled sound of triumph and of wailing. 

And there upon the trampled plain 
The farmer Iron-Beard lay slain, 
Midway between the assailed and the assailing. 

King Olaf from the doorway spoke : 
" Choose ye between two things, my folk, 
To be baptized or given up to slaughter ! " 

And seeing their leader stark and dead, 
The people with a murmur said, 
" King, baptize us with thy holy water ! M 

So all the Drontheim land became 
A Christian land in name and fame, 
In the old gods no more believing and trusting. 

And as a blood-atonement, soon 
King Olaf wed the fair Gudrun ; 
And thus in peace ended the Drontheim Hus-Ting ! s 

vni. 



On King Olaf's bridal night 
Shines the moon with tender light? 
And across the chamber streams 
Its tide of dreams. 

At the fatal midnight hour, 
When all evil things have power, 
In the glimmer of the moon 
Stands Gudrun. 

Close against her heaving breast, 
Something in her hand is pressed;. 
Like an icicle, its sheen 
Is cold and keen. 

On the cairn are fixed her eyes- 
Where her murdered father lies,. 
And a voice remote and drear 
She seems to hear. 

2 N 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

"What a bridal night is this? 
Cold will be the dagger's kiss; 
Laden with the chill of death 
Is its breath. 

Like the drifting snow she sweeps 
To the couch where Olaf sleeps ; 
Suddenly he wakes and *tirs, 
His eyes meet hers. 

" What is that," King Olaf said, 
" Gleams so bright above thy head ? 
Wherefore standest thou so white 
In pale moonlight ? " 

" 'Tis the bodkin that I wear 
When at night I bind my hair; 
It woke me falling on the floor ; 
'Tis nothing more." 

" Forests have ears, and fields have e; 
Often treachery lurking lies 
Underneath the fairest hair • 
Gudrun beware ! " 

Ere the earliest peep of morn 
Blew King Olaf s bugle-horn ; 
And forever sundered ride 
Bridegroom and bride \ 



THANGBRAND THE PRIEST, 

Short of stature, large of limb, 
Burly face and russet beard, 
All the women stared at him, 
When in Iceland he appeared. 
" Look ! " they said, 
With nodding head, 
" There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest." 

All the prayers he knew by rote, 

He could preach like Chrysostome, 
From the Fathers he could quote. 
He had even been at Rome. 
A learned clerk, 
A man of mark, 
Was this Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest. 

He was quarrelsome and loud, 

And impatient of control, 
Boisterous in the market crowd, 

Boisterous at the wassail-bowl, 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAP. 

Everywhere 

Would drink and swear, 
Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest. 

In his house this malecontent 

Could the King no longer bear, 
So to Iceland he was sent 

To convert the heathen there, 
And away 
One summer day 
Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest, 

There in Iceland, o'er their books 

Pored the people day and night, 
But he did not like their looks, 
Nor the songs they used to write. 
" All this rhyme 
Is waste of time ! " 
Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest. 

To the alehouse, where he sat, 

Came the Scalds and Saga-men ; 
Is it to be wondered at, 

That they quarrelled now and then, 
When o'er his beer 
Began to leer 
Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest ? 

All the folk in Altafiord 

Boasted of their island grand ; 
Saying in a single word, 
" Iceland is the finest land 
That the sun 
Doth shine upon ! " 
Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest. 

And he answered : u What 's the use 

Of this bragging up and down, 

When three women and one goose 

Make a market in your town ! " 

Every Scald 

Satires scrawled 

On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

Something worse they did than that; 

And what vexed him most of all 
Was a figure in shovel hat, 

Drawn in charcoal on the wall ; 
With words that go 
Sprawling below, 
" This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest." 



559 



660 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Hardly knowing what he did, 

Then he smote them might and main, 

Thorvald Veile and Veterlid 

Lay there in the alehouse slain. 

" To-day we are gold, 

To-morrow mould ! " 

Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest. 

Much in fear of axe and rope, 

Back to Norway sailed he then. 
" 0, King Olaf ! little hope 

Is there of these Iceland men ! " 
Meekly said, 
With bending head, 
Pious Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest. 

x. 

BAUD THE STRONG. 

" All the old gods are dead, 
All the wild warlocks fled ; 
But the White Christ lives and reigns, 
And throughout my wide domains 
His Gospel shall be spread ! " 
On the Evangelists 
Thus swore King Olaf. 

But still in dreams of the night 
Beheld he the crimson light, 
And heard the voice that defied 
Him who was crucified, 
And challenged him to the fight. 
To Sigurd the Bishop 
King Olaf confessed it. 

And Sigurd the Bishop said, 
'•' The old gods are not dead, 
For the great Thor still reigns, 
And among the Jarls and Thanes 
The old witchcraft still is spread." 
Thus to King Olaf 
Said Sigurd the Bishop. 

" Far north in the Salten Fiord, 

By rapine, fire, and sword, 

Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong ; 

All the Go doe Isles belong 

To him and his heathen horde." 

Thus went on speaking 

Sigurd the Bishop. 



THE SAGA OP KING OLAF. 

" A warlock, a wizard is he, 
And lord of the wind and the sea ; 
And whichever way he sails, 
He has ever favouring gales, 
By his craft in sorcery." 

Here the sign of the cross made 

Devoutly King Olaf. 

" With rites that we both abhor, 
He worships Odin and Thor ; 
So it cannot yet be said, 
That all the old gods are dead, 
And the warlocks are no more," 
Flushing with anger 
Said Sigurd the Bishop. 

Then King Olaf cried aloud : 
" I will talk with this mighty Raud, 
And along the Salten Fiord 
Preach the Gospel with my sword, 
Or be brought back in my shroud ! * 

So northward from Drontheim 

Sailed King Olaf. 

XI. 



561 



BISHOP SIGURD AT SALTEN FIORD. 

Loud the angry wind was wailing 
As King Olaf's ships came sailing 
Northward out of Drontheim haven 
To the mouth of Salten Fiord. 

Though the flying sea-spray drenches 
Fore and aft the rowers' benches, 
Not a single heart is craven 

Of the champions there on board. 

All without the Fiord was quiet, 
But within it storm and riot, 
Such as on his Viking cruises 

Raud the Strong was wont to ride. 

And the sea through all its tide-ways 
Swept the reeling vessels sideways, 
As the leaves are swept through sluices, 
When the flood-gates open wide. 

" 'Tis the warlock ! 'tis the demon 
Raud ! " cried Sigurd to the seamen ; 
" But the Lord is not affrighted 
By the witchcraft of his foes." 



562 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

To the ship's bow he ascended, 
By his choristers attended, 
Round him were the tapers lighted, 
And the sacred incense rose. 

On the bow stood Bishop Sigurd, 
In his robes, as one transfigured, 
And the Crucifix he planted 

High amid the rain and mist. 

Then with holy water sprinkled 
All the ship ; the mass-bells tinkled ; 
Loud the monks around him chanted, 
Loud he read the Evangelist. 

As into the Fiord they darted, 
On each side the water parted; 
Down a path like silver molten 

Steadily rowed King Olafs ships ; 

Steadily burned all night the tapers, 
And the White Christ through the vapours 
Gleamed across the Fiord of Salten, 
As through John's Apocalypse, — 

Till at last they reached Baud's dwelling 
On the little isle of Gelling; 
Not a guard was at the doorway, 

Not a glimmer of light was seen. 

But at anchor, carved and gilded, 
Lay the dragon ship he builded ; 
'Twas the grandest ship in Norway, 
With its crest and scales of green. 

Up the stairway, softly creeping, 
To the loft where Raud was sleeping, 
With their fists they burst asunder 
Bolt and bar that held the door. 

Drunken with sleep and ale they found him. 
Dragged him from his bed and bound him, 
While he stared with stupid wonder, 
At the look and garb they wore. 

Then King Olaf said : " Sea-King! 
Little time have we for speaking, 
Choose between the good and evil ; 
Be baptized, or thou shalt die ! " 

But in scorn the heathen scoffer 
Answered : " I disdain thine offer ; 
Neither fear I God nor Devil; 

Thee and thy Gospel I defy 1" 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 

Then between his jaws distended, 
When his frantic struggles ended, 
Through King Olaf s horn an adder, 

Touched, by fire, they forced to glide. 

Sharp his tooth was as an arrow, 

As he gnawed through bone and marrow ; 

But without a groan or shudder, 

Raud the Strong blaspheming died. 

Then baptized, they all that region, 
Swarthy Lap and fair Norwegian, 
Far as swims the salmon, leaping, 
Up the streams of Salten Fiord. 

In their temples Thor and Odin 
Lay in dust and. ashes trodden, 
As King Olaf, onward sweeping, 

Preached the Gospel with his sword. 

Then lie took the earved and gilded 
Dragon-ship that Raud had builded, 
And the tiller single-handed, 

Grasping, steered into the main. 

Southward sailed, the sea-gulls o'er him, 
Southward sailed the ship that bore him^ 
Till at Drontheim haven landed 
Olaf and his crew again. 



563 ! 



XII. 
KING OLAP'S CHRISTMAS. 

At Drontheim, Olaf the King 
Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring, 

As he sat in his banquet-hall, 
Drinking the nut-brown ale, 
With his bearded Berserks hale 

And tall. 

Three days his Yule-tide feasts 
He held with Bishops and Priests, 

And his horn filled up to the brim ; 
*But the ale was never too strong, 
Nor the Saga-man's tale too long, 
For him. 

O'er his drinking-horn the sign 
He made of the Cross divine, 

As he drank, and muttered his prayers ; 
But the Berserks evermore 
Made the sign of the Hammer of Thor 

Over theirs. 



56 4 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

The gleams of the fire-light dance 
Upon helmet and hauberk and lance, 

And laugh in the eyes of the King ; 
And he cries to Half red the Scald, 
Gray-bearded, wrinkled, and bald, 

" Sing ! 

" Sing me a song divine, 
With a sword in every line, 

And this shall be thy reward/' 
And he loosened the belt at his waist, 
And in front of the singer placed 

His sword. 

" Quern-biter of Hakon the Good, 
Wherewith at a stroke he hewed 

The millstone through and through, 
And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the Strong, 
Were neither so broad nor so long, 

Nor so true." 

Then the Scald took his harp and sang, 
And loud through the music rang 

The sound of that shining word ; 
And the harp-strings a clangour made, 
As if they were struck with the blade 

Of a sword. 

And the Berserks round about 
Broke forth into a shout 

That made the rafters ring ; 
They smote with their fists on the board, 
And shouted, " Long live the Sword, 

And the King ! " 

But the King said, " my son, 
I miss the bright word in one 

Of thy measures and thy rhymes." 
And Halfred the Scald replied, 
" In another 'twas multiplied 

Three times." 

Then King 01 af raised the hilt 
Of iron, cross-shaped and gilt, 

And said, " Do not refuse ; 
Count well the gain and the loss, 
Thor's hammer or Christ's cross ; 

Choose \ n 

And Halfred the Scald said, a This 
In the name of the Lord I kiss, 
Who on it was crucified ! " 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF, 565 

And a shout went round the board, 
" In the name of Christ the Lord, 
Who died !" 

Then over the waste of snows 
The noonday sun uprose, 

Through the driving mists revealed, 
Like the lifting of the Host, 
By incense-clouds almost 

Concealed. 

On the shining wall a vast 
And shadowy cross was cast 

From the hilt of the lifted sword 
And in foaming cups of ale 
The Berserks drank " Was-hael! 

To the Lord!" 



THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT 

Thorberg Skaftixg, master-builder, 

In his shipyard by the sea, 
Whistled, saying, "'Twould bewilder 
Any man but Thorberg Skafting, 

Any man but me !" 

Xear him lay the Dragon stranded, 
Built of old by Baud the Strong, 
And King Olaf had commanded 
He should build another Dragon, 
Twice as large and long. 

Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting, 
As he sat with half-closed eyes, 

And his head turned sideways, drafting 

That new vessel for King Olaf 
Twice the Dragon's size. 

Round him busily hewed and hammered 

Mallet huge and heavy axe ; 
"Workmen laughed and sang and clamoured 
Whirred the wheels, that into rigging 

Spun the shining flax. 



All this tumult heard the master, — 

It was music to his ear ; 
Fancy whispered all the faster, 
" Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting 

For a hundred year !" 



568 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Workmen sweating at the forges 

Fashioned iron bolt and bar, 
Like a warlock's midnight orgies 
Smoked and bubbled the black caldron 
With the boiling tar. 

Did the warlocks mingle in it, 

Thorberg Skafting, any curse ? 
Could you not be gone a minute 
But some mischief must be doing, 
Turning bad to worse ? 

'Twas an ill wind that came wafting 
From his homestead words of woe ; 

To his farm went Thorberg Skafting, 

Oft repeating to his workmen, 
Build ye thus and so. 

After long delays returning 

Came the master back by night ; 
To his shipyard longing, yearning, 
Hurried he, and did not leave it 
Till the morning's light. 

w Come and see my ship, my darling ! }9 
On the morrow said the King ; 

u Finished now from keel to carling ; 

Never yet was seen in Norway 
Such a wondrous thing ! " 

In the shipyard, idly talking, 

At the ship the workmen stared : 
Some one, all their labour balking, 
Down her sides had cut deep gashes, 
Not a plank was spared ! 

"Death be to the evil-door !" 

With an oath King Olaf spoke ; 
" But rewards to his pursuer !" 
And with wrath his face grew redder 
Than his scarlet cloak. 

Straight the master-builder, smiling, 
Answered thus the angry King : 

u Cease blaspheming and reviling, 

Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting 
Who has done this thing !" 

Then he chipped and smoothed the planking, 

Till the King, delighted, swore, 
With much lauding and much thanking, 
" Handsomer is now my Dragon 
Than she was before ! " 



THJi, SAGA OF KING OLAF. 

Seventy ells and four extended 

On the grass the vessel's keel ; 
High above it, gilt and splendid, 
Rose the figure-head ferocious, 
With its crest of steel. 

Then they launched her from the tress 

In the shipyard by the sea ; 
She was the grandest of all vessels, 
Never ship was built in Norway 
Half so fine as she ! 

The Long Serpent was she christened, 

'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer ! 
They who to the Saga listened 
Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting 
For a hundred year ! 



5G7 



THE CREW OF THE LONG SERPRNT. 

Sate at anchor in Drontheim Bay 
King Olaf 's fleet assembled lay, 

And, striped with white and blue, 
Downward fluttered sail and banner, 
As alights the screaming lanner; 
Lustily cheered, in their wild manner, 

The Long Serpent's crew. 

His forecastle man was Ulf the Red ; 
Like a wolf's was his shaggy head, 

His teeth as large and white ; 
His beard, of gray and russet blended, 
Round as a swallow's nest descended : 
As standard-bearer he defended 

Olaf's flag in the fight. 

Near him Kolbiorn had his place, 
Like the King in garb and face, 

So gallant and so hale; 
Every cabin-boy and varlet 
Wondered at his cloak of scarlet : 
Like a river, frozen and star-lit. 

Gleamed his coat of mail. 

By the bulkhead, tall and dark, 
Stood Thrand Rame of Thelemark, 

A figure gaunt and grand ; 
On his hairy arm imprinted 
Was an anchor, azure-tinted ; 
Like Thor's hammer, huge and dinted 

Was his brawny hand. 



,568 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Einar Tamberskelver, bare 
To the winds his golden hair, 

By the mainmast stood ; 
Graceful was his form, and slender, 
And his eyes were deep and tender 
As a woman's, in the splendour 

Of her maidenhood. 

In the fore-hold Biorn and Bork 
Watched the sailors at their work : 

Heavens ! how they swore ! 
Thirty men they each commanded, 
Iron-sinewed, horny-handed, 
Shoulders broad, and chests expanded, 

Tugging at the oar. 

These, and many more like these, 
With King Olaf sailed the seas, 

Till the waters vast 
Filled them with a vague devotion, 
With the freedom and the motion, 
With the roll and roar of ocean 

And the sounding blast. 

When they landed from the fleet, 

How they roared through Drontheim's street, 

Boisterous as the gale ! 
How they laughed and stamped and pounded, 
Till the tavern roof resounded, 
And the host looked on astounded 

As they drank the ale ! 

Never saw the wild North Sea 
Such a gallant company 

Sail its billows blue ! 
Never, while they cruised and quarrelled, 
Old King Gorm, or Blue-Tooth Harald,. 
Owned a ship so well-apparelled, 

Boasted such a crew ! 

xv. 

A LITTLE BIRD IN THE AIR. 

A little bird in the air 
Is singing of Thyri the fair, 

The sister of Svend the Dane : 

And the song of the garrulous bird 

In the streets of the town is heard, 

And repeated again and again. 

Hoist up your sails of silk, 

And flee away from each other. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 

To King Burislaf, it is said, 
Was the beautiful Thyri wed, 

And a sorrowful bride went she ; 
And after a week and a day, 
She has fled away and away, 

From his town by the stormy sea. 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 

They say, that through heat and through cold, 
Through weald, they say, and through wold, 

By day and by night, they say, 

She has fled ; and the gossips report 

She has come to King Olaf's courb, 

And the town is all in dismay. 

Hoist up your sails of silk, 

And flee away from each other. 

It is whispered King Olaf has seen, 
Has talked with the beautiful Queen ; 
And they wonder how it will end ; 
For surely, if here she remain, 
It is war with King Svend the Dane, 
And King Burislaf the Vend ! 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 

0, greatest wonder of all I 

It is published in hamlet and hall, 

It roars like a flame that is fanned ! 
The King— yes, Olaf the King — 
Has wedded her with his ring, 
And Thyri is Queen in the land ! 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 



569 



XVI. 
QUEEN THYRI AND THE ANGELICA-STALKS. 

Northward over Drontheim 
Flew the clamorous sea-gulls, 
Sang the lark and linnet 
From the meadows green ; 

Weeping in her chamber, 
Lonely and unhappy, 
Sat the Drottning Thyri, 
Sat King Olaf's Queen. 






670 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INK. 

In at all the windows 
Streamed the pleasant sunshine, 
On the roof above her 
Softly cooed the dove ; 

But the sound she heard not, 
Nor the sunshine heeded, 
For the thoughts of Thyri 
Were not thoughts of love. 

Then King Olaf entered, 
Beautiful as morning, 
Like the sun at Easter 
Shone his happy face; 

In his hand he carried 
Angelicas uprooted, 
With delicious fragrance 
Filling all the place. 

Like a rainy midnight 
Sat the Drottning Thyri, 
Even the smile of Olaf 

Could not cheer her gloom ; 

Nor the stalks he gave her 
With a gracious gesture, 
And with words as pleasant 
As their own perfume. 

In her hands he placed them, 
And her jewelled fingers 
Through the green leaves glistened 
Like the dews of morn ; 

But she cast them from her, 
Haughty and indignant, 
On the floor she threw them 
With a look of scorn. 

"Richer presents," said she, 
;( Gave King Harald Gormson 
To the Queen, my mother, 
Than such worthless weeds ; 

" When he ravaged Norway, 
Laying waste the kingdom, 
Seizing scatt and treasure 
For her royal needs. 

" But thou darest not venture 
Through the Sound to Vendland, 
My domains to rescue 
From King Burislaf ; 



THE SAGA OF KING OLA?. o7l 

"Lest King Svend of Denmark, 
Forked Beard, my brother, 
Scatter all thy vessels 
As the wind the chaff. n 

Then up sprang King Olaf, 
Like a reindeer bounding, 
"With an oath he answered 
Thus the luckless Queen : 

" Never yet did Olaf 
Fear King Svend of Denmark ; 
This right hand shall hale him 
By his forked chin I" 

Then he left the chamber, 
Thundering through the doorway. 
Loud his steps resounded 
Down the outer stair. 

Smarting with the insult, 
Through the streets of Drontheim 
Strode he red and wrathful, 
With his stately air. 

All his ships he gathered, 
Summoned all his forces, 
Making his war levy 
In the region round; 

Down the coast of Norway, 
Like a flock of sea-gulls, 
Sailed the fleet of Olaf 

Through the Danish Sound. 

With his own hand fearless, 
Steered he the Long Serpent, 
Strained the creaking cordage, 
Bent each boom and gaff; 

Till in Yendland landing, 
The domains of Thyri 
He redeemed and rescued 
From King Burislaf. 

Then said Olaf, laughing, 
u Not ten yoke of oxen 
Have the power to draw us 
Like a woman's hair ! 

" Now will I confess it, 

Better things are jewels 

Than angelica-stalks are 

For a Queen to wear." 



572 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



KING SVEND OF THE FORKED BEARD. 



Loudly the sailors cheered 
Svend of the Forked Beard, 
As with his fleet he steered 

Southward to Vendland ; 
Where with their courses hauled 
All were together called, 
Under the Isle of Svald 

Near to the mainland. 

After Queen Gunhild's death, 
So the old Saga saith, 
Plighted King Svend his faith 

To Sigrid the Haughty ; 
And to avenge his bride, 
Soothing her wounded pride, 
Over the waters wide 

King Olaf sought he. 

Still on her scornful face, 
Blushing with deep disgrace, 
Bore she the crimson trace 

Of Olaf s gauntlet ; 
Like a malignant star, 
Blazing in heaven afar, 
Ked shone the angry scar 

Under her frontlet. 

Oft to King Svend she spake, 
" For thine own honour's sake 
Shalt thou swift vengeance take 

On the vile coward ! " 
Until the King at last, 
Gusty and overcast, 
Like a tempestuous blast 

Threatened and lowered. 

Soon as the Spring appeared, 
Svend of the Forked Beard 
High his red standard reared, 

Eager for battle ; 
While every warlike Dane, 
Seizing his arms again, 
Left all unsown the grain, 

Unhoused the cattle. 

Likewise the Swedish King 
Summoned in haste a Thing, 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAP. 


$73 j 


Weapons and men to bring 
In aid of Denmark ; 




Eric the Norseman, too, 




As the war-tidings flew, 




Sailed with a chosen crew 


| 


From Lapland and Finmark. 


I 


So upon Easter day- 
Sailed the three kings away, 
Out of the sheltered bay, 

In the bright season ; 
With them Earl Sigvald cam?, 




Eager for spoil and fame ; 




Pity that such a name 
Stooped to such treason ! 


1 



Safe under Svald at last, 
Now were their anchors cast, 
Safe from the sea and blast, 

Plotted the three kings ; 
While, with a base intent, 
Southward Earl Sigvald went, 
On a foul errand bent, 

Unto the Sea-kings. 

Thence to hold on his course. 
Unto King Olaf's force, 
Lying within the hoarse 

Mouths of Stet-haven ; 
Him to ensnare and bring 
Unto the Danish king, 
Who his dead corse would fling 

Forth to the raven ! 

XVIIL 
KING OLAF AND EAItL SIGVALD. 

On the gray sea-sands 
King Olaf stands, 
Northward and seaward 
He points with his hands. 

With eddy and whirl 
The sea-tides curl, 
Washing the sandals 
Of Sigvald the EarL 

The mariners shout, 
The ships swing about, 
The yards are all hoisted, 
The sails flutter oufc. 

20 



57 i TALES OF A VVAFSIDE INN. 

The war-horns are played, 
The anchors are weighed, 
Like moths in the distance 
The sails flit and fade. 

The sea is like lead, 
The harbour lies dead, 
As a corse on the sea-short*. 
Whose spirit has fled ! 

On that fatal day, 
The histories say, 
Seventy vessels 
Sailed out of the bay. 

But soon scattered wide 
O'er the billows they ride, 
While Sigvald and Olaf 
Sail side by side. 

Cried the Earl, "Follow me! 
I your pilot will be, 
For I know all the channels 
Where flows the deep sea 1" 

So into the strait 
Where his foes lie in wait, 
Gallant King Olaf 
Sails to his fate ! 

Then the sea-fog veils 
The ships and their sails ; 
Queen Sigrid the Haughty, 
Thy vengeance prevails ! 



XIX. 
KING OLAF's WAR-HORNS. 

"Strike the sails !" King Olaf said; 
u Never shall men of mine take flight ; 
Never away from battle I fled, 
Never away from my foes ! 

Let God dispose 
Of my life in the fight ! " 

u Sound the horns ! " said Olaf the King ; 
And suddenly through the drifting brume 
The blare of the horns began to ring, 
Like the terrible trumpet shock 

Of Regnarock, 
On the day of Doom 1 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 

Louder and louder the war-horns sang 
Over the level floor o£ the flood ; 
All the sails came down with a clang, 
Aud there in the mist overhead 

The sun hung red 
As a drop of blood. 

Drifting down on the Danish fleet 
Three together the ships were lashed, 
So that neither should turn and retreat ; 
In the midst, but in front of the rest, 

The burnished crest 
Of the Serpent flashed. 

King Olaf stood on the quarter-deck, 
With bow of ash and arrows of oak, 
His gilded shield was without a fleck, 
His helmet inlaid with gold, 

And in many a fold 
Hung his crimson cloak. 

On the forecastle Ulf the Red 

Watched the lashing of the ships ; . . 

" If the Serpent lie so far ahead, 

We shall have hard work of it here," 

Said he with a sneer 
On his bearded lips. 

King Olaf laid an arrow on* string, 
" Have I a coward on board V said he. 
" Shoot it another way, King ! " 
Sullenly answered Ulf, 

The old sea- wolf ; 
•' You have need of me !" 

In front came Svend, the King of the Danes, 
Sweeping down with his fifty rowers ; 
To the right, the Swedish king with his thanes j 
And on board of the Iron-Beard 

Earl Eric steered 
On the left with his oars. 

" These soft Danes and Swedes," said the King, 
u At home w T ith their wives had better stay, 
Than come within reach of my Serpent's sting : 
But where Eric the Norseman leads 

Heroic deeds 
Will be done to-day!" 

Then as together the vessels crashed, 
Eric severed the cables of hide, 
With which King Olaf 's ships were lashed, 
And left them to drive and drift 



575 



57G TALES OF A WAYSIDE INW. 

With the currents swift 
Of the outward tide. 

Louder the war-horns growl and snarl. 
Sharper the dragons bite and sting I 
Eric the son of Hakon Jarl 
A death-drink salt as the sea 

Pledges to thee, 
Olaf the King ! 

xx. 

EINAR TAMBERSKELVER. 

It was Einar Tamberskelver 

Stood beside the mast ; 
From his yew bow, tipped with silv<gr f 

Flew the arrows fast ; 
Aimed at Eric unavailing, 

As he sat concealed, 
Half behind the quarter-railing, 

Half behind his shield. 

First an arrow struck the tiller, 

Just above his head ; 
« Sing, Eyvind Skaldaspiller,' 

Then Earl Eric said, 
u Sing the song of Hakon dying, 

Sing his funeral wail ! " 
And another arrow flying 

Grazed his coat of mail. 

Turning to a Lapland yeoman, 

As the arrow passed, 
Said Earl Erie, " Shoot that bowman 

Standing by the mast." 
Sooner than the word was spoken 

Flew the yeoman's shaft ; 
Einar's bow in twain was broken, 

Einar only laughed. 

" What was that?" said Olaf, standing 

On the quarter-deck. 
w Something heard I like the stranding 

Of a shattered wreck." 
Einar then, the arrow taking 

From the loosened string, 
Answered, "That was Norway breaking 

From thy hand, king !" 

u Thou art but a poor diviner," 
Straightway Olaf said ; 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 

" Take my bow, and swifter, Einar, 

Let thy shafts be sped." 
Of his bows the fairest choosing, 

Reached he from above ; 
Einar saw the blood-drops oozing 

Through his iron glove. 

Bat the bow was thin and narrow; 

At the first assay, 
O'er its head he drew the arrow, 

Flung the bow away ; 
Said, with hot and angry temper 

Flushing in his cheek, 
" Olaf ! for so great a Kamper 

Are thy bows too weak ! " 

Then, with smile of joy defiant 

On his beardless lip, 
Sealed he, light and self-reliant, 

Eric's dragon-ship. 
Loose his golden locks were flowing, 

Bright his armour gleamed ; 
Like Saint Michael overthrowing 

Lucifer he seemed. 



577 



KING OLAF S DEATH-DRINK. 

All day has the battle raged, 
All day have the ships engaged, 
But not yet is assuaged 

The vengeance of Erie the EarL 

The decks with blood are red, 
The arrows of death are sped, 
The ships are filled with the dead, 
And the spears the champions hurl. 

They drift as wrecks on the tide, 
The grappling-irons are plied, 
The boarders climb up the side, 
The shouts are feeble and few. 

Ah ! never shall Norway again 
See her sailors come back o'er the main ; 
They all lie wounded or slain, 
Or asleep in the billows blue ! 

On the deck stands Olaf the King, 
Around him whistle and sing 
The spears that the foemen fling, 

And the stones they hurl with their hands. 



578 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

In the midst of the stones and the spears, 
Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears, 
His shield in the air he uprears, 
By the side of King Olaf he stands. 

Over the slippery wreck 
Of the Long Serpent's deck 
Sweeps Eric with hardly a check, 
His lips with anger are pale ; 

He hews with his axe at the mast, 
Till it falls, with the sails overc ist, 
Like a snow-covered pine in the vast 
Dim forests of Orkadale. 

Seeking King Olaf then, 
He rushes aft with his men, 
As a hunter into the den 

Of the bear, when he stands at bay. 

* Remember Jarl Hakon ! " he cries ; 
When lo ! on his wondering eyes, 
Two kingly figures arise, 
Two Olafs in warlike array \ 

Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear 
Of King Olaf a word of cheer, 
In a whisper that none may hear, 
With a smile on his tremulous lip ; 

Two shields raised high in the air, 
Two flashes of golden hair, 
Two scarlet meteors' glare, 

And both have leaped from the ship. 

Earl Eric's men in the boats 
Seize Kolbiorn's shield as it floats, 
And cry, from their hairy throats, 
" See ! it is Olaf the King ! " 

While far on the opposite side 
Floats another shield on the tide, 
% Like a jewel set in the wide 

Sea-current's eddying ring. 

There is told a wonderful tale, 
How the King stripped off his mail, 
Like leaves of the brown sea-kale, 
As he swam beneath the main ; 

But the young grew old and gray, 
And never, by night or by day, 
In his kingdom of Norroway 
Was King Olaf seen again. I 



THE SAGA OF KTTSTG OLAF. 



579 i 



THE NUN OF NIDAROS. 

In the convent of Drontheim. 
Alone in her chamber 
Knelt Astrid the Abbess, 
At midnight, adoring, 
Beseeching, entreating 
The Virgin and Mother. 

Slje heard in the silence 
The voice of one speaking, 
Without in the darkness, 
In gust of the night-wind, 
Now louder, now nearer, 
Now lost in the distance. 

The voice of a stranger 
It seemed as she listened, 
Of some one who answered, 
Beseeching, imploring, 
A cry from afar off 
She could not distinguish. 

The voice of Saint John, 
The beloved disciple, 
Who wandered and waited 
The Master's appearance, 
Alone in the darkness, 
Unsheltered and friendless. 

" It is accepted 

The angry defiance, 

The challenge of battle ! 

It is accepted, 

But not with the weapons 

Of war that thou wieldest ! 

" Cross against corslet, 

Love against hatred, 

Peace-cry for war-cry ! 

Patience is powerful; 

He that o'ercometh 

Hath power o'er the nations ! 

" As torrents in summer, 
Half-dried in their channels, 
Suddenly rise, though the 
Sky is still cloudless, 
For rain has been falling 
Far off at their fountains : 



530 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

" So hearts that are fainting 
Grow full to o'erflowing, 
And they that behold it 
Marvel, and know not 
That God at their fountains 
Far off has been raining I 

" Stronger than steel 
Is the sword of the Spirit ; 
Swifter than arrows 
The light of the truth is ; 
Greater than anger 
Is love, and subdueth ! 

" Thou art a phantom, 

A shape of the sea-mist, 

A shape of the brumal 

Rain, and the darkness 

Fearful and formless ; 

Day dawns and thou art not x 

" The dawn is not distant, 
Nor is the night starless ; 
Love is eternal ! 
God is still God, and 
His faith shall not fail us ; 
Christ is eternal ! w 

INTERLUDE. 

A strain of music closed the tale, 
A low, monotonous funeral wail, 
That with its cadence, wild and sweety 
Made the long Saga more complete. 

" Thank God, " the Theologian said, 
" The reign of violence is dead, 
Or dying surely from the world ; 
"While Love triumphant reigns instead, 
And in a brighter sky o'erhead 
His blessed banners are unfurled. 
And most of all thank God for this : 
The war and waste of clashing creeds 
Now end in words, and not in deeds, 
And no one suffers loss or bleeds, 
For thoughts that men call heresies. 

" I stand without here in the porch, 

I hear the bell's melodious din, 

I hear the organ peal within, 

I hear the prayer, with words that scorch 

Like sparks from an inverted torch, 

I hear the sermon upon sin. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 5S1 

With threaten ings of the last account. 
And all, translated in the air, 
Reach me but as our dear Lord's Prayer, 
And as the Sermon on the Mount. 

" Must it be Calvin, and not Christ ? 
Must it be Athanasian creeds, 
Or holy water, books, and beads ? 
Must straggling souls remain content 
With councils and decrees of Trent? 
And can it be enough for these 
The Christian Church the year embalms 
With evergreens and boughs of palnis, 
And fills the air with litanies ? 

" I know that yonder Pharisee 
Thanks God that he is not like me ; - 
In my humiliation dressed, 
I only stand and beat my breast, 
And pray for human charity. 

" Not to one church alone, but seven, 
The voice prophetic spake from heaven ; 
And unto each the promise came, 
Diversified, but still the same ; 
For him that overcometh are 
The new name written on the stone, 
The raiment white, the crown, the throne. 
And I will give him the Morning Star ! 

" Ah ! to how many Faith has been 
No evidence of things unseen, 
But a dim shadow, that recasts 
The creed of the Phantasiasts, 
For whom no Man of Sorrows died, 
For whom the Tragedy Divine 
Was but a symbol and a sign, 
And Christ a phantom crucified ! 

" For others a diviner creed 
Is living in the life they lead. 
The passing of their beautiful feet 
Blesses the pavement of the street, 
And all their looks and words repeat 
Old Fuller's saying, wise and sweet, 
Not as a vulture, but a dove, 
The Holy Ghost came from above. 

" And this brings back to me a tale 
So sad the hearer well may quail, 
An-d question if such things can be ; 
Yet in the chronicles of Spain 



582 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Down the dark pages runs this stain, 
And naught can wash them white again, 
So fearful is the tragedy." 



THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 

TOKQUEMADA. 

In the heroic days when Ferdinand 

And Isabella ruled the Spanish land, 

And Torquemada, with his subtle brain, 

Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of Spain, 

In a great castle, near Valladolid, 

Moated and high and by fair woodlands hid, 

There dwelt, as from the chronicles we learn, 

An old Hidalgo, proud and taciturn, 

Whose name has perished, with his towers of stone, 

And all his actions, save this one alone ; 

This one so terrible, perhaps 'twere best 

If it, too, were forgotten with the rest ; 

Unless, perchance, our eyes can see therein 

The martyrdom triumphant o'er the sin ; 

A double picture, with its gloom and glow, 

The splendour overhead, the death below. 

This sombre man counted each day as lost 

On which his feet no sacred threshold crossed ; 

And when he chanced the passing Host to meet, 

He knelt and prayed devoutly in the street ; 

Oft he confessed ; and with each mutinous thought, 

As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he fought. 

In deep contrition scourged himself in Lent, 

Walked in processions with his head down bent, 

At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen, 

And on Palm Sunday bore his bough of green. 

His only pastime was to hunt the boar 

Through tangled thickets of the forest hoar, 

Or with his jingling mules to hurry down 

To some grand bullfight in the neighbouring town, 

Or in the crowd with lighted taper stand, 

When Jews were burned, or banished from the land. 

Then stirred within him a tumultuous joy; 

The demon whose delight is to destroy 

Shook him, and shouted with a trumpet tone, 

" Kill ! kill ! and let the Lord find out His own ! " 

And now, in that old castle in the wood, 
His daughters, in the dawn of womanhood, 
Returning from their convent school, had made 
Resplendent with their bloom the forest shade, 



TORQUEMADA. 583 

Reminding him of their dead mother's face, 

When first she came into that gloomy place,— - 

A memory in his heart as dim and sweet 

As moonlight in a solitary street, 

Where the same rays, that lift the sea, are thrown 

Lovely but powerless upon walls of stone. 

These two fair daughters of a mother dead 

Were all the dream had left him as it fled. 

A joy at first, and then a growing care, 

As if a voice within him cried, " Beware ! " 

A vague presentiment of impending doom, 

Like ghostly footsteps in a vacant room, 

Haunted him day and night ; a formless fear 

That death to some one of his house was near, 

With dark surmises of a hidden crime, 

Made life itself a death before its time. 

Jealous, suspicious, with no sense of shame, 

A spy upon his daughters he became ; 

With velvet slippers, noiseless on the floors. 

He glided softly through half-open doors ; 

Now in the room, and now 7 upon the stair, 

He stood beside them ere they were aware ; 

He listened in the passage when they talked, 

He watched them from the casement when they walked. 

He saw the gypsy haunt the river's side, 

He saw the monk among the cork-trees glide ; 

And, tortured by the mystery and the doubt 

Of some dark secret, past his finding out, 

Baffled he paused ; then reassured again 

Pursued the flying phantom of his brain. 

He watched them even when they knelt in church 

And then, descending lower in his search, 

Questioned the servants, and w 7 ith eager eyes 

Listened incredulous to their replies; 

The gypsy ? none had seen her in the wood ! 

The monk ? a mendicant in search of food ! 






At length the aw^ful revelation came, 
Crushing at once his pride oi birth and name, 
The hopes his yearning bosom forward cast, 
And the ancestral glories of the past; 
All fell together, crumbling in disgrace, 
A turret rent from battlement to base. 
His daughters talking in the dead of night, 
In their own chamber, and without a light, 
Listening, as he was wont, he overheard, 
And learned the dreadful secret, word by word ; 
And hurrying from his castle, with a cry 
He raised his hands to the unpitying sky, 



584 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Repeating one dread word, till bush and tree 
Caught it, and shuddering answered, " Heresy ! " 
Wrapped in his cloak, his hat drawn o'er his face, 
Now hurrying forward, now with lingering pace, 
He walked all night the alleys of his park, 
With one unseen companion in the dark, 
The Demon who within him lay in wait, 
And by his presence turned his love to hate, 
For ever muttering in an undertone, 
" Kill ! kill 1 and let the Lord find out His own ! " 
Upon the morrow, after early Mass, 
While yet the dew was glistening on the grass, 
And all the woods were musical with birds, 
The old Hidalgo, uttering fearful words, 
Walked homeward with the Priest, and in his room 
Summoned his trembling daughters to their doom. 
When questioned, with brief answers they replied^ 
Nor when accused evaded or denied ; 
Expostulations, passionate appeals, 
All that the human heart most fears or feels, 
In vain the Priest with earnest voice essayed, 
In vain the father threatened, wept, and prayed : 
Until at last he said, with haughty mien, 
" The Holy Office, then, must intervene ! " 
And now the Grand Inquisitor of Spain, 
With all the fifty horsemen of his train, 
His awf ul name resounding, like the blast 
Of funeral trumpets, as he onward passed, 
Came to Valladolid, and there began 
To harry the rich Jews with fire and ban. 
To him the Hidalgo went, and at the gate 
Demanded audience on affairs of state, 
And in a secret chamber stood before 
A venerable graybeard of fourscore, 
Dressed in the hood and habit of a friar ; 
Out of his eyes flashed a consuming fire, 
And in his hand the mystic horn he held, 
Which poison and all noxious charms dispelled. 
He heard in silence the Hidalgo's tale, 
Then answered in a voice that made him quail : 
" Son of the Church ! when Abraham of old 
To sacrifice his only son was told, 
He did not pause- to parley nor protest, • 
But hastened to obey the Lord's behest. 
In him it was accounted righteousness ; 
The Holy Church expects of thee no less ! '* 
A sacred frenzy seized the father's brain, 
jAnd Mercy from that hour implored in vain. 



TORQTTEMADA. 585 

Ah ! wlio will e'er believe the words I say ? 
His daughters he accused, and the same day 
They both were cast into the dungeon's gloom, 
That dismal antechamber of the tomb, 
Arraigned, condemned, and sentenced to the flame, 
The secret torture and the public shame. 

Then to the Grand Inquisitor once more 

The Hidalgo went, more eager than before, 

And said : " When Abraham offered up his son, 

He clave the wood wherewith it might be done. 

By his example taught, let me too bring 

Wood from the forest for my offering ! " 

And the deep voice, without a pause, replied : 

" Son of the Church ! by faith now justified, 

Complete thy sacrifice, even as thou wilt; 

The Church absolves thy conscience from all guilt ! " 

Then this most wretched father went his way 

Into the woods, that round his castle lay, 

Where once his daughters in their childhood played 

With their young mother in the sun and shade. 

Now all the leaves had fallen ; the branches bare 

Made a perpetual moaning in the air, 

And screaming from their eyries overhead 

The ravens sailed athwart the sky of lead. 

With his own hands he lopped the boughs and bound 

Fagots, that crackled with foreboding sound, 

And on his mules, caparisoned and gay 

With bells and tassels, sent them on their way. 

Then with his mind on one dark purpose bent, 

Again to the Inquisitor he went, 

And said : u Behold, the fagots I have brought, 

And now, lest my atonement be as naught, 

Grant me one more request, one last desire, — 

With my own hand to light the funeral fire !" 

And Torquemada answered from his seat, 

" Son of the Church ! thine offering is complete ; 

Her servants through all ages shall not cease 

To magnify thy deed. Depart in peace ! " 

Upon the market-place, builded of stone 

The scaffold rose, whereon Death claimed his own= 

At the four corners, in stern attitude, 

Four statues of the Hebrew Prophets stood, 

Gazing with calm indifference in their eyes 

Upon this place of human sacrifice, 

Hound which was gathering fast the eager crowd, 

With clamour of voices dissonant and loud, 



580 TALES 0¥ A WAYSIDE INN. 

And every roof and window was alive 
With restless gazer3, swarming like a Live. 

The church-bells tolled, the chant of monks drew near, 

Loud trumpets stammered forth their notes of fear, 

A line of torches smoked along the street, 

There was a stir, a rush, a tramp of feet, 

And, with its banners floating in the air, 

Slowly the long procession crossed the square, 

Aud, to the statues of the Prophets bound, 

The victims stood, with fagots piled around. 

Then all the air a blast of trumpets shook, 

And louder sang the monks with bell and book, 

And the Hidalgo, lofty, stern, and proud, 

Lifted his torch, and, bursting through the crowd, 

Lighted in haste the fagots, and then fled, 

Lest those imploring eyes should strike him dead ! 

pitiless skies ! why did your clouds retain 

For peasants' fields their floods of hoarded rain ? 

pitiless earth ! why opened no abyss 

To bury in its chasm a crime like this ? 

That night, a mingled column of fire and smoke 
From the dark thickets of the forest broke, 
And, glaring o'er the landscape leagues away, 
Made all the fields and hamlets bright as day. 
Wrapped in a sheet of flame the castle blazed, 
And as the villagers in terror gazed, 
They saw the figure of that cruel knight 
Lean from a window in the turret's height, 
His ghastly face illumined with the glare, 
His hands upraised above his head in prayer, 
Till the floor sank beneath him, and he fell 
Down the black hollow of that burning well. 

Three centuries and more above his bones 
Have piled the oblivious years like funeral stones ; 
His name has perished with him, and no trace 
Remains on earth of his afflicted race ; 
But Torquemada's name, with clouds o'ercast, 
Looms in the distant landscape of the Past, 
Like a burnt tower upon a blackened heath, 
Lit by the fires of burning woods beneath ! 

Interlude. 
Thus closed the tale of guilt and gloom, 
That cast upon each listener's face 
Its shadow, and for some brief space 
Unbroken silence filled the room. 
The Jew was thoughtful and distressed; 
Upon his memory thronged and pressed 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWOETH. 

The persecution of his race, 
Their wrongs and sufferings and disgrace ; 
His head was sunk upon his breast, 
And from his eyes alternate came 
Flashes of wrath and tears of shame. 

The Student first the silence broke, 

As one who long has lain in wait, 

With purpose to retaliate, 

And thus he dealt the avenging stroke : 

" In such a company as this, 

A tale so tragic seems amiss, 

That by its terrible control 

O'ermasters and drags down the soul 

Into a fathomless abyss. 

The Italian Tales that you disdain, 

Some merry Night of Straparole, 

Or Machiayelli's Belphagor, 

Would cheer us and delight us more, 

Give greater pleasure and less pain - 

Than your grim tragedies of Spain ! " 

And here the Poet raised his hand, 
With such entreaty and command, 
It stopped discussion at its birth, 
And said : " The story I shall tell 
Has meaning in it, if not mirth ; 
Listen, and hear what once befell 
The merry birds of Kiliingworth ! " 



587 



THE POET'S TALE. 

THE BIRDS OP KILLINGWORTH. 

It was the season, when through all the land 
The merle and mavis build, and building sing 

Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, 

Whom Saxon Ccedmon calls the Blithe-heart King; 

When on the boughs the purple buds expand, 
The banners of the vanguard of the Spring, 

And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, 

And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. 

The robin and the blue-bird, piping loud, 

Filled all the blossoming orchai ds with their glee ; 

The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud 
Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; 

And hungry crows assembled in a crowd, 
Clamoured their piteous prayer incessantly, 

Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said : 

" Give us, Lord, this day our daily bread ! * 



538 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed, 

Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet 

Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed 

The village with the cheers of all their fleet ; 

Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed 
Like foreign sailors, landed in the street 

Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise 

01 oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys. 

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killing worth, 
In fabulous days, some hundred years ago ; 

And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, 
Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, 

That mingled with the universal mirth, 
Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe ; 

They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words 

To swift destruction the whole race of birds. 

And a town-meeting was convened straightway 

To set a price upon the guilty heads 
Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, 

Levied black-mail upon the garden beds 
And cornfields, and beheld without dismay 

The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds ; 
The skeleton that waited at their feast, 
Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. 

Then from his house, a temple painted white, 
With fluted columns, and a roof of red, 

The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight ! 
Slowly descending, with majestic tread, 

Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, 
Down the long street he walked, as one who said, 

" A town that boasts inhabitants like me 

Can have no lack of good society ! " 

The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, 
The instinct of whose nature was to kill ; 

The wrath of God he preached from year to year, 
And read, with fervour, Edwards on the Will; 

His favourite pastime was to slay the deer 
In Summer on some Adirondac hill; 

E'en now, while walking down the rural lane, 

He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. 

From the Academy, whose belfry crowned 
The hill of Science with its vane of brass, 

Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, 

Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, 

And all absorbed in reveries profound 
Of fair Almira in the upper class, 



THE BIEDS OP KILLESTGWOETH. 589 

Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, 
As pure as water, and as good as bread. 

And next the Deacon issued from his door, 
In his voluminous neckcloth, white as snow ; 

A suit of sable bombazine he wore ; 

His form was ponderous, and his step was slow; 

There never was so wise a man before ; 

He seemed the incarnate " Well, I told you so ! " 

And to perpetuate his great renown 

There was a street named after him in town. 

These came together in the new town-hall, 
With sundry farmers from the region round. 

The Squire presided, dignified and tall, 

His air impressive and his reasoning sound. 

Ill fared it with the birds, both great and small ; 
Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, 

But enemies enough, who every one 

Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. 

When they had ended, from his place apart, 

Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong, 
And, trembling like a steed before the start, 

Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng; 
Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart 

To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, 
Alike regardless of their smile or frown, 
And quite determined not to be laughed down. 

" Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, 

From his Republic banished without pity 
The Poets ; in this little town of yours, 

You put to death, by means of a Committee, 
The ballad-singers and the troubadours, 

The street-musicians of the heavenly city, 
The birds, who make sweet music for us all 
In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 

" The thrush that carols at the dawn of day 

From the green steeples of the piny wood ; 
The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay, 

Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; 
The blue-bird balanced on some topmost spray, 

Flooding with melody the neighbourhood; 
Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng 
That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. 

" You slay them all ! and wherefore ? for the gain 

Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, 
Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, 

Scratched up at random by industrious feet, 

2 P 



500 TALES OF A WAYSIDE I3STN, 

Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! 

Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet 
As are the songs these uninvited guests 
Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. 

" Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these ? 

Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught 
The dialect they speak, where melodies 

Alone are the interpreters of thought ? 
Whose household words are songs in many keys, 

Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! 
Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 
Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! 

u Think, every morning when the sun peeps through 
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the groye, 

How jubilant the happy birds renew 
Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! 

And when you think of this, remember too 
'Tis always morning somewhere, and above 

The awakening continents, from shore to shore, 

Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 

" Think of your woods and orchards without birds ! 

Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams 
As in an idiot's brain remembered words 

Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! 
Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds 

Make up for the lost music, when your teams 
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more 
The feathered gleaners follow to your door ? 

" What ! would you rather see the incessant stir 
Of insects in the windrows of the hay, 

And hear the locust and the grasshopper 
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ? 

Is this more pleasant to you than the whirr 
Of meadow-lark, and its sweet roundelay, 

Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take 

Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake ? 

a You call them thieves and pillagers ; but know 
They are the winged wardens of your farms, 

Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, 
And from your harvests keep a hundred harmsj 

Even the blackest of them all, the crow, 
Eenders good service as your man-at-arms, 

Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, 

And crying havoc on the slug and snail. 

" How can I teach your children gentleness, 
And mercy to the weak, and reverence, 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWOKTH. 5U1 

For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, 

Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, 
Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less 

The self-same light, although averted hence, 
When by your laws, your actions, and your speech, 
You contradict the very things I teach ?" 

With this he closed; and through the audience went 

A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves : 
The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent 

Their yellow heads together like their sheaves ; 
Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment 

Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves. 
The birds were doomed; and, as the record shows, 
A bounty offered for the heads of crows. 

There was another audience out of reach, 
Who had no voice nor vote in making laws, 

But in the papers read his little speech, 

And crowned his modest temples with applause ; 

They made him conscious, each one more than each, 
He still was victor, vanquished in their cause. 

Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, 

fair Almira at the Academy ! 

And so the dreadful massacre began ; 

O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland crests, 
The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. 

Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their breasts, 
Or wounded crept away from sight of man, 

While the young died of famine in their nests ; 
A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, 
The very St Bartholomew of Birds ! 

The Summer came, and all the birds were dead; 

The days were like hot coals ; the very ground 
Was burned to ashes ; and the orchards fed 

Myriads of caterpillars, and around 
The cultivated fields and garden beds 

Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found 
No foe to check their march, till they had made 
The land a desert without leaf or shade. 

Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town, 

Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly 
Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down 

The canker-worms upon the passers-by, 
Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown, 

Who shook them off with just a little cry ; 
They were the terror of each favourite walk, 
The endless theme of all the village talk. 



592 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

The farmers grew impatient, but a few 

Confessed their error, and would not complain, 

For after all, the best thing one can do 
When it is raining, is to let it rain. 

Then they repealed the law, although they knew 
It would not call the dead to life again ; 

As school-boys, finding their mistake too late, 

Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. 

That year in Killingworth the Autumn came 
Without the light of his majestic look, 

The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, 
The illumined pages of his Doomsday-Book. 

A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame, 
And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, 

While the wild wind went moaning everywhere, 

Lamenting the dead children of the air ! 

But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen, 
A sight that never yet by bard was sung, 

As great a wonder as it would have been 
If some dumb animal had found a tongue ! 

A waggon, overarched with evergreen, 

Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, 

All full of singing birds, came down the street, 

Filling the air with music wild and sweet. 

From all the country round these birds wei e brought 
By order of the town, with anxious quest, 

And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought 
In woods and fields the places they loved best, 

Singing loud canticles, which many thought 
Were satires to the authorities addressed, 

While others, listening in green lanes, averred 

Such lovely music never had been heard ! 

But blither still and louder carolled they 
Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know 

It was the fair Almira's wedding-day, 
And everywhere, around, above, below, 

When the Preceptor bore his bride away, 
Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow, 

And a new heaven bent over a new earth 

Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. 



THE BIRDS OF KTTJIXGWORTH, Z93 



FINALE, 



The hour was late ; the fire burned low, 
The Landlord's eyes were closed in sleep, 
And near the story's end a deep 
Sonorous sound at times was heard, 
As when the distant bagpipes blow. 
At this all laughed ; the Landlord stirred, 
As one awaking from a swound, 
And, gazing anxiously around, 
Protested that he had not slept, 
But only shut his eyes, and kept 
His ears attentive to each word. 

Then all arose, and said " Good Night." 
Alone remained the drowsy Squire 
To rake the embers of the fire, 
And quench the waning parlour light ; 
While from the windows, here and there. 
The scattered lamps a moment gleamed, 
And the illumined hostel seemed 
The constellation of the Bear, 
Downward, athwart the misty air, 
Sinking and settiug toward the sua* 
Far off the village clock struck : 






BIEDS OF PASSAGE. 

FLIGHT THE SECOND. 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 

Between the dark and the daylight, 
When the night is beginning to lower, 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
That is known as the Children's Hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet. 
The sound of a door that is opened 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight 
Descending the broad hall-stair, 

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence : 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 
A sudden raid from the hall ! 

By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall J 

They climb up into my turret 

O'er the arms and back of my chair; 

If I try to escape they surround me; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse Tower on the Rhine! 



ENCELADUS. 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old moustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ? 

I have you fast in my fortress, 
And will not let you depart, 

But put you down into the dungeon 
In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away ! 



595 



ENCELADUS. 

Under Mount Etna he lies, 
It is slumber, it is not death ; 

For he struggles at times to arise, 

And above him the lurid skies 
Are hot with his fiery breath. 

The crags are piled on his breast, 

The earth is heaped on his head ; 
But the groans of his wild unrest, 
Though smothered and half suppresses., 
Are heard, and he is not dead. 

And the nations far away 

Are watching with eager eyes ; 

They talk together and say, 

" To-morrow, perhaps to-day, 
Enceladus will arise ! " 

And the old gods, the austere 

Oppressors in their strength, 
Stand aghast and white with fear 
At the ominous sounds they hear, 

And tremble, and mutter, " At length I 

Ah me ! for the land that is sown 

With the harvest of despair ! 
Where the burning cinders, blown 
From the lips of the overthrown 

Enceladus, fill the air. 

Where ashes are heaped in drifts 

Over vineyard and field and town, 
Whenever he starts and lifts 
His head through the blackened rifts 
Of the crags that keep him down. 



596 BIKDS OF PASSAGE. 

See, see ! the red light shines ! 

"Tis the glare of his awful eyes ! 
And the storm-wind shouts through the pines 
Of Alps and of Apennines, 

" Enceladus, arise ! " 



THE CUMBERLAND. 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 

On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war ; 
And at times from the fortress across the bay 
The alarum of drums swept past, 
Or a bugle blast 
From the camp on the shore. 

Then far away to the south uprose 

A little feather of snow-white smoke, 
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes 
Was steadily steering its course 
To try the force 
Of our ribs of oak. 

Down upon us heavily runs, 

Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; 
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, 
And leaps the terrible death, 
With fiery breath, 
From each open port. 

We are not idle, but send her straight 

Defiance back in a full broadside ! 
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 
'Rebounds our heavier hail 
From each iron scale 
Of the monster's hide. 

" Strike your flag !" the rebel cries, 

In his arrogant old plantation strain. 
" Never ! " our gallant Morris replies ; 
" It is better to sink than to yield ! " 
And the whole air pealed 
With the cheers of our men. 

Then, like a kraken huge and black 

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! 
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, 
With a sudden shudder of death, 
And the cannon's breath 
For her dying gasp, 



A DAY OF SUNSHINE. 597 

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 

Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head. 
Lord, how beautiful was thy day ! 
Every waft of the air 
Was a whisper of prayer, 
Or a dirge for the dead. 

Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas ! 

Ye are at peace in the troubled stream, 
Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these, 
Thy flag, that is rent in twain, 
Shall be one again, 
And without a seam I 



SNOW-FLAKES. 

Out of the bosom of the Air, 

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, 
Over the woodlands brown and bare, 
Over the harvest-fields forsaken, 
Silent, and soft, and slow 
Descends the snow. 

Even as our cloudy fancies take 

Suddenly shape in some divine expression, 
Even as the troubled heart doth niake/" 
In the white countenance confession, 
The troubled sky reveals 
The grief it feels. 

This is the poem of the air, 

Slowly in silent syllables recorded ; 
This is the secret of despair, 

Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, 
Now whispered and revealed 
To wood and field. 



A DAY OF SUNSHINE. 

gift of God ! perfect day : 
Whereon shall no man work, but play; 
Whereon it is enough for me, 

Not to be doing, but to be! 

Through every fibre of my brain, 
Through every nerve, through every vein, 

1 feel the electric thrill, the touch 
Of life, that seems almost too much. 



598 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

I hear the wind among the trees 
Playing celestial symphonies ; 
I see the branches downward bent, 
Like keys of some great instrument. 

And over me unrolls on high 
The splendid scenery of the sky, 
Where through a sapphire sea the sun 
Sails like a golden galleon, 

Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, 
Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, 
Whose steep sierra far uplifts 
Its craggy summits white with drifts. 

Blow, winds : and waft through all the rooms 
The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms ! 
Blow, winds ! and bend within my reach 
The fiery blossoms of the peach ! 

Life and Love ! happy throng 
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song ! 
heart of man ! canst thou not be 
Blithe as the air is, and as free ? 
1860. 



SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. 

Labour with what zeal we will, 
Something still remains undone, 

Something uncompleted still 
Waits the rising of the sun. 

By the bedside, on the stair, 
At the threshold, near the gates, 

With its menace or its prayer, 
Like a mendicant it waits ; 

Waits, and will not go away ; 

Waits, and will not be gainsaid : 
By the cares of yesterday 

Each to-day is heavier made ; 

Till at length the burden seems 

Greater than our strength can bear ; 

Heavy as the weight of dreams, 
Pressing on us everywhere. 

And we stand from day to day, 
Like the dwarfs of times gone by, 

Who, as Northern legends say, 
On their shoulders held the sky. 



WEARINESS. 699 



WEARINESS. 



LITTLE feet ! that such long years 
Must wander on through hopes and fears, 

Must ache and bleed beneath your load; 
I, nearer to the wayside inn, 
Where toil shall cease and rest begin, 

Am weary, thinking of your road ! 

little hands ! that, weak or strong, 
Have still to serve or rule eo long, 

Have still so long to give or ask ; 
I, who so much with book and pen 
Have toiled among my fellow-men, 

Am weary, thinking of your task. 

little hearts ! that throb and beat, 
With such impatient, feverish heat, 

Such limitless and strong desires ; 
Mine that so long has glowed and burned. 
With passions into ashes turned, 

Now covers and conceals its fires. 

little souls ! as pure and white 
And crystalline as rays of light 

Direct from heaven, their source divine; 
Refracted through the mist of years, 
How red my setting sun appears, 

H<)w lurid looks this soul of mine ! 



2 P* 



FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 



FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 

Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, 

Or solitary mere, 
Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers 

Its waters to the weir ! 

Thou laughest at the mill, the whirr and worry 

Of spindle and of loom, 
And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry 

And rushing of the flume. 

Born to the purple, born to joy and pleasance, 
Thou dost not toil nor spin, 

But makest glad and radiant with thy presence 
The meadow and the lin. 

The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner, 
And round thee throng and run 

The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor, 
The outlaws of the sun. 

The burnish 'd dragon-fly is thine attendant, 
And tilts against the field, 

And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent 
With steel-blue mail and shield. 

Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest, 
Who, arm'd with golden rod 

And wing'd with the celestial azure, bearest 
The message of some God. 

Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded cities 
Hauntest the sylvan streams, 

Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties 
That come to us as dreams. 

584* 



PALIN GENESIS. 585* 

flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river 

Linger to kiss thy feet ! 
O flower of song, bloom on and make for ever 

The world more fair and sweet. 



PALINGENESIS. 

1 lay upon the headland height, and listen'd 
To the incessant sobbing of the sea 

In caverns under me, 
And watch'd the waves that toss'd and fled and glisten'd 
Until the rolling meadows of amethyst 

Melted away in mist. 

Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started ; 
For round about me all the sunny capes 

Seem'd peopled with the shapes 
Of those whom I had known in days departed, 
ApparelTd in the loveliness which gleams 

On faces seen in dreams. 

A moment only, and the light and glory 
Faded away, and the disconsolate shore 

Stood lonely as before ; 
And the wild roses of the promontory 
Around me shudder'd in the wind, and shed 

Their petals of pale red. 

There was an old belief that in the embers 
Of all things their primordial form exists, 

And cunning alchemists 
Could re-create the rose with all its members 
From its own ashes, but without the bloom, 

Without the lost perfume. 

Ah me ! what wonder-working, occult science 
Can from the ashes in our hearts once more 

The rose of youth restore ? 
What craft of alchemy can bid defiance 
To time and change, and for a single hour 

Eenew this phantom-flower ? 

" Oh, give me back ! " T cried, u the vanishM splendours, 
The breath of morn and the exultant strife, 

When the swift stream of life 
Bounds o'er its rocky channel, and surrenders 
The pond, with all its lilies, for the leap 

Into the unknown deep ! "' 



686* FLOWEE-DE-LUCE. 

And the sea answered, with a lamentation, 
Like some old prophet wailing, and it said, 

11 Alas ! thy youth is dead ! 
It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation ; 
In the dark places with the dead of old 

It lies for ever cold ! " 

Then said I, " From its consecrated cerements 
I will not drag this sacred dust again, 

Only to give me pain ; 
But, still remembering all the lost endearments, 
Go on my way, like one who looks before, 

And turns to weep no more." 

Into what land of harvests, what plantations 
Bright with autumnal foliage and the glow 

Of sunsets burning low ; 
Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellations 
Light up the spacious avenues between 

This world and the unseen I 

Amid what friendly greetings and caresses, 
What households, though not alien, yet not mine, 

What bowers of rest divine ; 
To what temptations in lone wildernesses, 
What famine of the heart, what pain and loss, 

The bearing of what cross ! 

I do not know ; nor will I vainly question 
Those pages of the mystic book which hold 

The story still untold, 
But without rash conjecture or suggestion 
Turn its last leaves in reference and good heed, 

Until" The End "I read. 



THE BKIDGE OF CLOUD. 

Burn, oh evening hearth, and waken 
Pleasant visions, as of old ! 

Though the house by winds be shaken, 
Safe I keep this room of gold ! 

Ah, no longer wizard Fancy 

Builds her castles in the air, 

Luring me by necromancy 

Up the never-ending stair. 



HAWTHORNE. 

But, instead, she builds me bridges 

Over many a dark ravine, 
Where beneath the gusty ridges 

Cataracts dash and roar unseen. 

And I cross them, little heeding 
Blast of wind or torrent's roar, 

As I follow the receding 

Footsteps that have gone before. 

Naught avails the imploring gesture, 
Naught avails the cry of pain? 

When I touch the flying vesture, 
'Tis the grey robe of the rain. 

Baffled I return, and leaning 

O'er the parapets of cloud, 
Watch the mist that intervening 

Wraps the valley in its shroud. 

And the sounds of life ascending 
Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, 

Murmur of bells and voices blending 
With the rush of waters near. 

Well I know what there lies hidden, 
Every tower and town and farm, 

And again the land forbidden 

Beassumes its vanish'd charm. 

Well I know the secret places, 

And the nests in hedge and tree ; 

At what doors are friendly faces, 

In what hearts are thoughts of me. 

Through the mist and darkness sinking, 
Blown by wind and beaten by shower, 

Down I fling the thought I'm thinking, 
Down I toss this Alpine flower. 



587* 



HAWTHORNE. 
Mat 23, 1864. 

How beautiful it was, that one bright day 

In the long week of rain ! 
Though all its splendour could not chase away 

The omnipresent pain- 



588* FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 

The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, 

And the great elms overhead 
Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms, 

Shot through with golden thread. 

Across the meadows, by the grey old manse, 

The historic river flow'd ; 
I was as one who wanders in a trance, 

Unconscious of his road. 

The faces of familiar friends seem'd strange : 

Their voices I could hear, 
And yet the words they utter' d seem'd to change 

Their meaning to my ear. 

For the one face I look'd for was not there, 

The one low voice was mute ; 
Only an unseen presence fill'd the air, 

And baffled my pursuit. 

Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream 

Dimly my thought defines ; 
I only see — a dream within a dream — 

The hill-top hearsed with pines. 

I only hear above his place of rest 

Their tender undertone, 
The infinite longings of a troubled breast, 

The voice so like his own. 

There in seclusion and remote from men 

The wizard hand lies cold, 
Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, 

And left the tale half told. 

Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic power, 

And the lost clew regain ? 
The unfinish'd window in Aladdin's tower 

Unfinish'd must remain ! 



CHPJSTMAS BELLS. 

I heard the bells on Christmas day 
Their old, familiar carols play, 

And wild and sweet 

The words repeat 
Of peace on earth, good- will to men ! 



KAMBALU. 589* 

And thought how, as the day had come, 
The belfries of all Christendom 

Had roll'd along 

The unbroken song 
Of peace on earth, good- will to men ! 

Till, ringing, singing on its way, 
The world revolved from night to day, 

A voice, a chime, 

A chant sublime 
Of peace on earth, good- will to men ! 

Then from each black, accursed mouth 
The cannon thunder'd in the South, 

And with the sound 

The carols drown 'd 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

It was as if an earthquake rent 
The hearthstones of a continent, 

And made forlorn 

The households born 
Of peace on earth, good- will to men ! 

And in despair I bow'd my head ; 
11 There is no peace on earth," I said, 

1 ' For hate is strong 

And mocks the song 
Of peace on earth, good- will to men! " 

Then peal'd the bells more loud and deep : 
11 God is not dead ; nor doth he sleep! 

The Wrong shall fail, 

The Right prevail, 
With peace on earth, good-will to men !" 



KAMBALU. 

Into the city of Kambalu, 
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan, 
At the head of his dusty caravan, 
Laden with treasure from realms afar, 
Baldacca and Kelat and Kandahar, 
Rode the great captain Alau. 

The Khan from his palace-window gazed, 
And saw in the thronging street beneath, 
In the light of the setting sun that blazed 
Through the clouds of dust by the caravan raised, 



590* FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 

The flash of harness and jewell'd sheath, 

And the shining scymitars of the guard, 

And the weary camels that bared their teeth, 

As they pass'd and pass'd through the gates unbarr'd 

Tnto the shade of the palace-yard, ' 

Thus into the city of Kambalu 

Kode the great captain Alau ; 

And he stood before the Khan, and said : 

"The enemies of my lord are dead ; 

All the Kalifs of all the West 

Bow and obey thy least behest ; 

The plains are dark with the mulberry-trees, 

The weavers are busy in Samarcand, 

The miners are sifting the golden sand, 

The divers plunging for pearls in the seas, 

And peace and plenty are in the land. 

" Baldacca's Kalif, and he alone, 

Rose in revolt against thy throne : 

His treasures are at thy palace-door, 

With the swords and the shawls and the jewels he wore ; 

His body is dust o'er the desert blown. 

" A mile outside of Baldacca's gate 

1 left my forces to lie in wait, 

Conceal'd by forests and hillocks of sand, 

And forward dash'd with a handful of men 

To lure the oldjiger from his den 

Tnto the ambush 1 had plann'd. 

Ere we reach'd the town the alarm was spread, 

For we heard the sound of gongs from within ; 

And with clash of cymbals and warlike din 

The gates swung wide ; and we turn'd and fled, 

And the garrison sallied forth and pursued, 

With the grey old Kalif at their head, 

And above them the banner of Mohammed : 

So we snared them all, and the town was subdued. 

l * As in at the gate we rode, behold, 

A tower that was call'd the Tower of Gold ! 

For there the Kalif had hidden his wealth, 

Heap'd and hoarded and piled on high, 

Like sacks of wheat in a granary ; 

And thither the miser crept by stealth 

To feel of the gold that gave him health, 

And to gaze and gloat with hx>->hungry eye 

On jewels that gleam'd like a glow-worm's spark, 

Or the eyes of a panther in the dark. 



THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY. 591* 

"I said to the Kalif : ' Thou art old, 

Thou hast no need of so much gold. 

Thou shouldst not have heap'd and hidden it here, 

Till the breath of battle was hot and near, 

But have sown through the land these useless hoards 

To spring into shining blades of swords, 

And keep thine honour sweet and clear. 

These grains of gold are not grains of wheat; 

These bars of silver thou canst not eat ; 

These jewels and pearls and precious stones 

Cannot cure the aches in thy bones, 

Nor keep the feet of Death one hour 

From climbing the stairways of thy tower ! ' 

11 Then into his dungeon I lock'd the drone, 
And left him to feed there all alone 
In the honey-cells of his golden hive : 
Never a prayer nor a cry nor a groan 
Was heard from those massive walls of stone, 
Nor again was the Kalif seen alive ! 

" When at last we unlock'd the door, 

We found him dead upon the floor ; 

The rings had dropp'd from his withered hands, 

His teeth were like bones in the desert sands ; 

Still clutching his treasure he had died ; 

And as he lay there, he appear'd 

A statue of gold with a silver beard, 

His arms outstretch'd as if crucified." 

This is the story, strange and true, 
That the great captain Alau 
Told to his brother the Tartar Khan, 
When he rode that day into Kambalu 
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan. 



THE WIND OYER THE CHIMNEY. 

See, the fire is sinking low, 
Dusky red the embers glow, 

While above them still I cower, 
While a moment more I linger, 
Though the clock, with lifted finger, 

Points beyond the midnight hour. 

Sings the blacken'd log a tune 
Learn'd in some forgotten June 
From a schoolboy at his play, 



592* FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 

When they both were young together, 
Heart of youth and summer weather 
Making all their holiday. 

And the night-wind rising, hark ! 
How above there in the dark, 

In the midnight and the snow, 
Ever wilder, fiercer, grander, 
Like the trumpets of Iskander, 

All the noisy chimneys blow ! 

Every quivering tongue of flame 
Seems to murmur some great name, 

Seems to say to me, " Aspire ! " 
But the night-wind answers, " Hollow 
Are the visions that you follow, 

Into darkness sinks your fire ! " 

Then the flicker of the blaze 
Gleams on volumes of old days, 

Written by masters of the art, 
Loud through whose majestic pages 
Kolls the melody of ages, 

Throb the harp-strings of the heart. 

And again the tongues of flame 
Start exulting and exclaim : 

" These are prophets, bards, and seers ; 
In the horoscope of nations, 
Like ascendant constellations, 

They control the coming years." 

But the night-wind cries, " Despair ! 
Those who walk with feet of air 

Leave no long-enduring marks ; 
At God's forges incandescent 
Mighty hammers beat incessant, 

These are but the flying sparks. 

"Dust are all the hands that wrought ; 
Books are sepulchres of thought ; 

The dead laurels of the dead 
Rustle for a moment only, 
Like the wither'd leaves in lonely 

Churchyards at some passing tread." 

Suddenly the flame sinks down ; 
Sink the rumours of renown ; 
And alone the night-wind drear 



KILLED AT THE FORD. 593* 

Clamours louder, wilder, vaguer, — 
14 'Tis the brand of Meleager 
Dying on the hearth-stone here I " 

And I answer, " Though it be, 
Why should that discomfort me ? 

No endeavour is in vain ; 
Its reward is in the doing, 
And the rapture of pursuing 

Is the prize the vanquish'd gain." 



THE BELLS OF LYNN. 

HEARD AT NAHANT. 

curfew of the setting sun ! Bells of Lynn ! 
requiem of the dying day ! Bells of Lynn ! 

From the dark belfries of yon cloud -cathedral wafted, 
Your sounds aerial seem to float, Bells of Lynn ! 

Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight, 
O'er land and sea they rise and fall, Bells of Lynn ! 

The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland, 
Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, Bells of Lynn ! 

Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward 
Follow each other at your call, Bells of Lynn ! 

The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal 
Answers you, passing the watchword on, Bells of Lynn ! 

And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges, 
And clap their hands, and shout to you, Bells of Lynn ! 

Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations, 
Ye summon up the spectral moon, Bells of Lynn ! 

And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor, 
Ye cry aloud, and then are still, Bells of Lynn ! 



KILLED AT THE FOKD. 

He is dead, the beautiful youth, 

The heart of honour, the tongue of truth, 

He, the life and light of us all, 

Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call. 

Whom all eyes follow'd with one consent, 

The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, 

Hush'd all murmurs of discontent. 



594* FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 

Only last night, as we rode along 

Down the dark of the mountain gap, 

To visit the picket-guard at the Ford, 

Little dreaming of any mishap, 

He was humming the words of some old song : 

" Two red roses he had on his cap, 

And another he bore at the point of his sword." 

Sudden and swift a whistling ball 
Came out of a wood, and the voice was still ; 
Something I heard in the darkness fall, 
And for a moment my blood grew chill ; 
I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks 
In a room where some one is lying dead ; 
But he made no answer to what I said. 

We lifted him up to his saddle again, 

And through the mire and the mist and the rain 

Carried him back to the silent camp, 

And laid him as if asleep on his bed ; 

And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp 

Two white roses upon his cheeks, 

And one, just over his heart, blood-red ! 

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet 

That fatal bullet went speeding forth 

Till it reach'd a town in the distant North, 

Till it reach'd a house in a sunny street, 

Till it reach'd a heart that ceased to beat 

Without a murmur, without a cry ; 

And a bell was toll'd in that far-off town, 

For one who had pass'd from cross to crown, 

And the neighbours wonder' d that she should die. 



GCOTTO'S TOWER. 

How many lives, made beautiful and sweet 
By self-devotion and by self-restraint, 
Whose pleasure is to run without complaint 
On unknown "errands of the Paraclete, 

Wanting the reference of unshodden feet, 

Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint 
Around the shining forehead of the saint, 
And are in their completeness incomplete ! 

In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower, 
The lily of Florence blossoming in stone, — 
A vision, a delight, and a desire, — 

The builder's perfect and centennial flower, 
That in the night of ages bloom'd alone, 
But wanting still the glory of the spire. 



DIVINA COMMEDIA. 595* 



TO-MOEROW. 

Tis late at night, and in the realm of sleep 
My little lambs are folded like the flocks ; 
From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks 
Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep 

Their solitary watch on tower and steep ; 
Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks, 
And through the opening door that time unlocks 
Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep. 

To-morrow ! the mysterious, unknown guest, 

Who cries to me : " Remember Barmecide, 
And tremble to be happy with the rest." 

And I make answer : "I am satisfied ; 

I dare not ask ; I know not what is best ; 
God hath already said what shall betide." 



DIVINA COMMEDIA. 



Oft have I seen at some cathedral door 

A labourer, pausing in the dust and heat, 
Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet 
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor 

Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er ; 

Far off the noises of the world retreat ; 
The loud vociferations of the street 
Become an uudistinguishable roar. 

So, as I enter here from day to day, 

And leave my burden at this minster gate, 
Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, 

The tumult of the time disconsolate 

To inarticulate murmurs dies away, 
While the eternal ages watch and wait. 



How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers ! 
This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves 
Birds build their nests ; while canopied with leaves 
Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers, 

And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers ! 

But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves 
Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves, 
And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers! 



596* FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 

Ah ! from what agonies of heart and brain, 
What exultations trampling on despair, 
What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong, 

What passionate outcry of soul in pain, 
Uprose this poem of the earth and air, 
This mediaeval miracle of song ! 



I enter, and I see thee in the gloom 

Of the long aisles, poet saturnine ! 

And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine. 

The air is fill'd with some unknown perfume ; 
The congregation of the dead make room 

For thee to pass ; the votive tapers shine ; 

Like rocks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine 

The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb. 

From the confessionals T hear arise 
Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies, 
And lamentations from the crypts below ; 

And then a voice celestial that begins 

With the pathetic words, " Although your sins 
As scarlet be," and ends with " as the snow." 



IV. 

I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze 

With forms of saints of holy men who died, 
Here martyr'd and hereafter glorified ; 
And the great Rose upon its leaves displays 

Christ's Triumph, and the angelic roundelays 
With splendour upon splendour multiplied ; 
And Beatrice again at Dante's side 
No more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise. 

And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirs 
Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love, 
And benedictions of the Holy Ghost ; 

And the melodious bells among the spires 

O'er all the house-tops and through heaven above 
Proclaim the elevation of the Host ! 



Oh star of morning and of liberty ! 

bringer of the light whose splendour shines 
Above the darkness of the Apennines, 
Forerunner of the day that is to be ! 



NOEL. 597 

The voices of the city and the sea, 

The voices of the mountains and the pines, 
Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines 
Are footpaths for the thought of Italy ! 

Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights, 

Through all the nations, and a sound is heard, 

As of a mighty wind, and men devout, 
Strangers of Home, and the new proselytes, 

In their own language, hear thy wondrous word, 

And many are amazed, and many doubt. 



NOEL. 

NVOYE X M. AGASSIZ, LA VEILLE DE NOEL 1864, AVEC 
UN PANIER DE YIRIS DIVERS. 

L'Acaderaie en respect, 
Nouobstant l'incorrection, 
A la faveur du sujet, 

Ture-lure, 
N'y fera point de rature ; 
Noel ! ture-lure-lure. 

Gui-Barozai. 

Quand les astres de Noel 
Brillaient, palpitaient an ciel, 
Six gaillards, et chacun ivre, 
Chantaient gaiment dans le givre, 

"Bods amis, 
Allons done chez Agassiz t" 

Ces illustres Pelerins 
D'Outre-Mer adroits et fins 
Se donnant des airs de pretre, 
A l'envi se vantaient d'etre 

"Bons amis, 
De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz ! " 

OEil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur, 
Sans reproche et sans pudeur, 
Dans son patois de Bourgogne, 
Bredouillait comme un ivrogne, 

"Bons amis, 
J'ai danse chez Agassiz !" 

Verzenay le Champenois, 
Bon Francais, point New-Norquois, 
Mais des environs d'Avize, 
Fredonne a mainte reprise, 

" Boris amis, 
J'ai chante chez Agassiz ! " 



593* FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 

A cote march ait un vieux 
Hidalgo, mais non raousseux ; 
Dans le temps de Charlemagne 
Fut son pere Grand d'Espagne ! 

"Bons amis, 
J'ai dine chez Agassiz ! " 

Derriere eux un Bordelais, 
Gascon, s'il en fut jamais, 
Parfume de poesie 
Kiait, chantait, plein de vie ; 

" Bons amis, 
J'ai soupe chez Agassiz!" 

Avec ce beau cadet roux, 
Bras dessus et bras dessous, 
Mine altiere et couleur terne; 
Vint le Sire de Sau terne ; 

" Bons amis, 
J'ai couch e chez Agassiz ! " 

Mais le dernier de ces preux, 
Etait un pauvre Chartreux, 
Qui disait, d'un ton robuste, 
" Benedictions sur le Juste ! 

" Bons amis, 
Benissons Pere Agassiz ! " 

lis arrivent trois a trois, 
Montent l'escalier de hois 
Clopin-clopant ! quel gendarme 
Peut permettre ce vacarme, 

Bons amis, 
A la porte d'Agassiz ! 

" Ouvrez done, mon bon Seigneur, 
Ouvrez vite et n'ayez peur ; 
Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes 
Gens de bien et gentilshommes, 

Bons amis, 
De la famille Agassiz ! " 

Chut, ganaches ! taisez-vous ! 
C'en est trop de vos glouglous ; 
Epargnez aux Philosophes 
Vos abominables strophes ! 

Bons amis, 
Kespectez mon Agassiz ! 

THE END. 



NOTES. 



Page 127. All the Foresters of Flanders. 

The title o Boresters was given to the early governors of Flanders, appointed 
by the kings of France. Lyderick du Bucq, in the days of Clotaire the Second, 
was the first of them; and Beaudoin Bras-de-Fer, who stole away the fair Judith, 
daughter of Charles the Bald, from the French court, and married her in Bruges, 
was the last. After him, the title of Forester was changed to that of Count. 
Philippe d r Alsace, Guy de Dampierre, and Louis de Crecy coming later in the 
order of time, were therefore rather Counts than Foresters. Philippe went twice 
to the Holy Land as a Crusader, and died of the plague at St Jean-d' Acre, shortly 
after the capture of the city by the Christians. Guy de Dampierre died in the 
prison of Compiegne. Louis de Crecy was son and successor of Robert de 
Bethune, who strangled his wife, Yolande de Bourgogne, with the bridle of his 
horse, for having poisoned, at the age of eleven years, Charles, his son by his 
first wife, Blanche d'Anjou. 

Page 127. Stately dames, Hie queens attended. 

When Philippe-le-Bel, king of France, visited Flanders with his queen, she 
was so astonished at the magnificence of the dames of Bruges, that she ex- 
claimed, — " Je croyais etre seule reine ici, mais il parait que ceux de Flandre 
qui se trouvent dans nos prisons sont tous des princes, car leurs femmes sont 
habillees comme des princesses et des reines." 

When the burgomasters of Ghent, Bruges, and Ypres, went to Paris to pay 
homage to King John, in 1351, they were received with great pomp and distinc- 
tion; but, being invited to a festival, they observed that their seats at table were 
not furnished with cushions; whereupon, to make known their displeasure at this 
want of regard to their dignity, they folded their richly embroidered cloaks and 
seated themselves upon them. On rising from table they left their cloaks behind 
them, and, being informed of their apparent forgetfulness, Simon van Eertrycke, 
burgomaster of Bruges, replied,—" We Flemings are not in the habit of carry- 
ing away our cushions after dinner." 

Page 127. Knights who bore the Fleece of Gold. 

Philippe de Bourgogne, surnamed Le Bon, espoused Isabella of Portugal, on 
the 10th of January, 1430; and on the same day instituted the famous order of 
the Fleece of Gold. 

Page 127. 1 beheld the gentle Mary. 

Marie de Valois, Duchess of Burgundy, was left by the death of her father, 
Charles-le-Temeraire, at the age of twenty, the richest heiress of Europe. She 
came to Bruges, as Countess of Flanders, in 1477, and in the same year was 
married by proxy to the Archduke Maximilian. According to the custom of the 
time, the Duke of Bavaria, Maximilian's substitute, slept with the princess. They 
were both in complete dress, separated by a naked sword, and attended by four 
armed guards. Marie was adored by her subjects for her gentleness and hei 
many other virtues. 

Maximilian was son of the Emperor Frederick the Third, and is the same per- 
son mentioned afterwards in the poem of Nuremberg as the Kaiser Maximilian, 
and the hero of Pfmzing's poem of Teuerdanh. Having been imprisoned by the 



C02 NOTES. 

revolted burghers of Bruges, they refused to release him, till he consented to 
kneel in the public square, and to swear on the Holy Evangelists and the body of 
Saint Donatus, that he would not take vengeance upon them for their rebellion. 

Page 127. The bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold. 

This battle, the most memorable in Flemish history, was fought under the 
walls of Courtray, on the 11th of July, 1302, between the French and the Flem- 
ings, the former commanded by Robert, Comte d'Artois, and the latter by Guil- 
laume de Juliers, and Jean, Comte de Namur. The French army was completely 
routed, with a loss of twenty thousand infantry and seven thousand cavalry; 
among whom were sixty-three princes, dukes, and counts, seven hundred lords- 
banneret, and eleven hundred noblemen. The flower of the French nobility 
perished on that day ; to which history has given the name of the Journee des 
Eperons d'Or from the great number of golden spurs found on the field of battle. 
Seven hundred of them were hung up as a trophy in the church of Notre Dame 
de Courtray; and, aa the cavaliers of that day wore but a single spur each, these 
vouched to God for the violent and bloody death of seven hundred of his crea- 
tures. 

Page 127. Saw the fight at Minnewater. 

When the inhabitants of Bruges were digging a canal at Minnewater to bring 
the waters of the Ly& from Deynze to their city, they were attacked and routed 
by the citizens of Ghent, whose commerce would have been much injured by the 
canal. They were led by Jean Lyons, captain of a military company at Ghent, 
called the Chaperons Blancs. He had great sway over the turbulent populace, 
who, in those prosperous times of the city, gained an easy livelihood by labouring 
two or three days in the week, and had the remaining four or five to devote to 
public affairs. The fight at Minnewater was followed by open rebellion against 
Louis de Maele, the Count of Flanders and Protector of Bruges. His superb 
chateau of Wondelghem was pillaged and burnt, and the insurgents forced the 
gates of Bruges, and entered in triumph, with Lyons mounted at their head. A 
few days afterwards, he died suddenly, perhaps by poison. 

Meanwhile the insurgents received a check at the village of Nevele ; and twc 
hundred of them perished in the church, which was burned by the Count's orders. 
One of the chiefs, Jean de Lannoy, took refuge in the belfry. From the summit 
of the tower he held forth his purse filled with gold, and begged for deliverance. 
It was in vain. His enemies cried to him from below to save himself as best he 
might; and, half suffocated with smoke and flame, he threw himself from the 
tower and perished at their feet. Peace was soon afterwards established, and the 
Count retired to faithful Bruges. 

Page 127. The Golden Dragon* s nest. 

The Golden Dragon, taken from the church of St Sophia, at Constantinople, in 
one of the Crusades, and placed on the belfry of Bruges, was afterwards trans- 
ported to Ghent by Philip van Artevelde, and still adorns the belfry of that city. 

The inscription on the alarm-bell at Ghent is, " Mynen naem is Roland ; als 
ikklep is er brand, and als ik luy is er victorie in het land,'* My name is Roland; 
when I toll there is fire, and when I ring there is victory in the land. 

Page 131. That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. 
An old popular proverb of the town runs thus : — 

«' Number g' s Hand 

GeJit durch alle Land.** 
Nuremberg's hand 
Goes through eyery land. 

Page 131. Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. 
Melchior Pfinzing was one of the most celebrated German poets of the six- 
teenth century. The hero of his Teuerdank was the reigning emperor 
Maximilian : and the poem was to the Germans of that day what the Orlando 
Furioso was to the Italians. Maximilian is mentioned before, in the Belfry of 
Bruges. See page 127. 

Page 131. In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust. 
The tomb of Saint Sebald, in the church which bears his name, is one of the 
richest works of art in Nuremberg. It is of bronze, and was cast bv Peter Vischer 



NOTES. 603 

and his sons, who laboured upon it thirteen years. It is adorned with nearly 
one hundred figures, among which those of the Twelve Apostles are conspicuous 
for size and beauty. 

Page 131. In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare* 
This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of the sacrament, is by the hand of Adam 
Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of sculpture in white stone, and rises to the height 
of sixty-four feet. It stands in the choir, whose richly painted windows cover it 
with varied colours. 

Page 131. Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters. 
The Twelve Wise Masters was the title of the original corporation of the Mas- 
ter-singers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler of Nuremberg, though not one of the ori- 
ginal Twelve, was the most renowned of the Master-singers, as well as the most 
voluminous. He flourished in the sixteenth century; and left behind him thirty- 
four folio volumes of manuscript, containing two hundred and eight plays, one 
thousand and seven hundred comic tales, and between four and five thousand lyric 
poems. 

Page 132. As in Adam Puschman*s song. 
Adam Puschman, in his poem on the death of Hans Sachs, describes him as he 
appeared in a vision : — 

"An old man, 
Gray and white, and dove4ike, 
"Who had, in sooth, a great beard, 
And read in a fair, great book, 
Beautiful with golden clasps." 

Page 140. The Occultation of Orion, 

Astronomically speaking, this title is incorrect; as I apply to a constellation 

what can properly be applied to some of its stars only. But my observation is 

made from the hill of song, and not from that of science; and will, I trust, be 

found sufficiently accurate for the present purpose. 

Page 149. Walter von der Vogelweide. 

Walter von der Vogelweide, or Bird-Meadow, was one of the principal Minne- 
singers of the thirteenth century. He triumphed over Heinrich von Ofterdingen 
in that poetic contest at Wartburg Castle, known in literary history as the War 
of Wartburg. 

Page 154. Like imperial Charlemagne. 

Charlemagne may be called by pre-eminence the monarch of farmers. Ac- 
cording to the German tradition, in seasons of great abundance, his spirit crosses 
the Rhine on a golden bridge at Bingen, and blesses the corn-fields and the vine- 
yards. During his lifetime, he did not disdain, says Montesquieu, " to sell the 
eggs from the farm-yards of his domains, and the superfluous vegetables of his 
gardens; while he distributed among his people the wealth of the Lombards and 
the immense treasures of the Huns." 

Page 167. Behold, at last, 

Each tall and tapering mast 
Is swung into its place. 
I wish to anticipate a criticism on this passage by stating, that sometimes, 
though not usually, vessels are launched fully rigged and sparred. I have 
availed myself of the exception, as better suited to my purposes than the general 
rule; but the reader will see that it is neither a blunder nor a poetic license. On 
this subject a friend in Portland, Maine, writes me thus : — 

"Iu this State, and also, I am told, in New York, ships are sometimes rigged 
upon the stocks, in order to save time, or to make a show,. There was a fine, 
large ship launched last summer at EUsworth, fally rigged and sparred. Some 
years ago a ship was launched here, with her rigging, spars, sails, and cargo 
aboard. She sailed the next day and— was never heard of again. I hope this 
will not be the fate of your poem ! " 

Page 173. Sir Humphrey Gilbert. 
** When the wind abated and the vessels were near enough, the Admiral was 



60-± NOTES. 

seen constantly sitting in the stem, with a book in his hand. On the 9th of Sep- 
tember he was seen for the last time, and was heard by the people of the Hind to 
say, * We are as near heaven by sea as by land.' In the following night the lights 
of the ship suddenly disappeared. The people in the other vessel kept a good 
look-out for him during the remainder of the voyage. On the 22d of September 
they arrived, through much tempest and peril, at Falmouth. But nothing more 
was seen or heard of the Admiral." — Belknap's American Biography, i. 203. 

Page 189. The Blind Girl of CastlU Cuiltb. 

Jasmin, the author of this beautiful poem, is to the south of France what 
Burns is to the south of Scotland, — the representative of the heart of the people, 
—one of those happy bards who are born with their mouths full of birds (la 
bouco pleno d'aouzelous). He has written his own biography in a poetic form, 
and the simple narrative of his poverty, his struggles, and his triumphs, is very 
touching. He still lives at Agen, on the Garonne ; and long may he live thereto 
delight his native land with native songs! 

The following description of his person and way of life is taken from the graphic 
pages of " Beam and the Pyrenees," by Louisa Stuart Costello, whose charming 
pen has done so much to illustrate the French provinces and their literature. 

"At the entrance of the promenade Du Gravier is a row of small houses, — 
some cafes, others shops, the indication of which is a painted cloth placed across 
the way, with the owner's name in bright gold letters, in the manner of the ar- 
cades in the streets, and their announcements. One of the most glaring of these 
was, we observed, a bright blue flag, bordered with gold ; on which, in large gold 
letters, appeared the name of 'Jasmin, Coiffeur.' We entered, and were wel- 
comed by a smiling, dark-eyed woman, who informed us that her husband was 
busy at that moment dressing a customer's hair, but he was desirous to receive 
as, and begged we would walk into his parlour at the back of the shop. 

" She exhibited to us a laurel crown of gold, of delicate workmanship, sent 
from the city of Clemence Isaure, Toulouse, to the poet : who will probably one 
day take his place in the capitoul. Next came a golden cup, with an inscription 
in his honour, given by the citizens of Auch ; a gold watch, chain, and seals, sent 
by the king, Louis Philippe; an emerald ring, worn and presented by the la- 
mented Duke of Orleans; a pearl pin, by the graceful Duchess, who, on the poet's 
visit to Paris accompanied by his son, received him in the words he puts into 
the mouth of Henri Quatre : — 

* Brabes Gaseous I 

A moun amou per bous aou dibes creyre: 

Bends I beaes I ej plaz6 de bous beyre : 
Aprouchabousl 
A fine service of linen, the offering of the town of Pau, after its citizens had given 
fetes in his honour, and loaded him with caresses and praises; and nicknacks 
and jewels of all descriptions offered to him by lady-ambassadresses and great 
lords; English * misses' and 'miladis'; and French, and foreigners of all nations 
who did or did not understand Gascon. 

" All this, though startling, was not convincing ; Jasmin, the barber, might 
only be a fashion, & furore, a caprice, after all; and it was evident that he knew 
how to get up a scene well. When we had become nearly tired of looking over 
these tributes to his genius, the door opened, and the poet himself appeared. 
His manner was free and unembarrassed, well-bred, and lively; he received our 
compliments naturally, and like one accustomed to homage; said he was ill, and 
unfortunately too hoarse to read anything to us, or should have been delighted 
to do so. He spoke with a broad Gascon accent, and very rapidly and eloquently; 
ran over the story of his successes ; told us that his grandfather had been a beg- 
gar, and all his family very poor; that he was now as rich as he wished to be; his 
eon placed in a good position at Nantes ; then shewed us his son's picture, and 
spoke of his disposition, to which his brisk little wife added, that, though no fool, 
he had not his father's genius, to which truth Jasmin assented as a matter of 
course. I told him of having seen mention made of him in an English review ; 
which he said had been sent him by Lord Durham, who had paid him a visit; 
and then I spoke of * Me cal mouri ' as known to me. This was enough to make 
him forget his hoarseness and eveiy other evil : it would never do for me to ima- 
gine that that little song was his best composition; it was merely his first; he 



NOTES. 



605 



must try to read to me a little of ' L'Abuglo,'— a few verses of ' Frar.cjouneto ; '— 
1 You Will be charmed,' said lie; 'but if I were well, and you would give me the 
pleasure of your company for some time, if you were not merely running through 
Agen, I would kill you with weeping,— I would make you die with distress for my 
poor Margarido, — my pretty Francouneto 1 ' 

"He caught up two copies of his book, from a pile lying on the table, and 
making us sit close to him, he pointed out the French translation on one side, 
which he told us to follow while he read in Gascon. He begin in a rich, soft 
voice, and as he advanced, the surprise of Hamlet on hearing the player-king re- 
cite the disasters of Hecuba was but a type of ours, to find ourselves carried away 
by the spell of his enthusiasm. His eyes swam in *ears; he became pale and 
red; he trembled; he recovered himself; his face was now joyous, now exulting, 
gay, jocose; in fact, he was twenty actors in one; he rang the changes from 
Rachael to Bouffe; and he finished by delighting us, besides beguiling us of our 
tears, and overwhelming us with astonishment. 

"He would have be-n a treasure on the stage; for he is still, though his first 
youth is past, remarkably good-looking and striking; with black sparkling eyes, 
of intense expression ; a fine, ruddy complexion ; a countenance of wondrous 
mobility; a good figure, and action full of fire and grace; he has handsome 
hands, which he uses with infinite effect; and, on the whole, he is the best actor 
of the kind I ever saw. I could now quite understand what a troubadour or 
iongleur might be, and I look upon Jasmin as a revived specimen of that extinct 
race. Such as he is might have been Gaucelm Faidit, of Avignon, the friend of 
Coeur de Lion, who lamented the death of the hero in such moving strains; such 
might have been Bernard de Ventadour, who sang the praises of Queen Elinore's 
beauty; such Geoffrey Rudel, of Blaye, on his own Garonne; such the wild Vidal : 
certain it is, that none of these troubadours of old could more move by their 
singing or reciting, than Jasmin, in whom all their long-smothered fire and tra- 
ditional magic seems re-illumined. 

"We found we had stayed hours instead of minutes with the poet; but he 
would not hear of any apology, — only regretted that his voice was so out of tune, 
in consequence of a violent cold, under which he was really labouring, and hoped 
to see us again. He told us our countrywomen of Pau he'd laden him with kind- 
ness and attention, and spoke with such enthusiasm of the beauty of certain 
'misses,' that I feared his little wife would feel somewhat piqued; but, on the 
contrary, she stood by, smiling, and happy, and enjoying the stories of his 
triumphs. I remarked that he had restored the poetry of the troubadours ; asked 
him if he knew their songs; and said he was worthy to stand at their head. 'I 
am, indeed, a troubadour,' said he, with energy; 'but I am far beyond them all; 
they were but beginners; they never composed a poem like my " Francouneto :" 
there are no poets in France now — there cannot be; the language does not ad- 
mit of it; where is the fire, the spirit, the expression, the tenderness, the force 
of the Gascon ? French is but the ladder to reach to the first floor of Gascon,— 
how can you get up to a height except by a ladder?' 

"* returned by Agen, after an absence in the Pyrenees of>some months, and 
renewed my acquaintance with Jasmin and his dark-eyed wife. I did not ex- 
pect that I should be recognised : but the moment I entered the little shop I was 
hailed as an old friend. 'Ah! ' cried Jasmin, 'enfin la voila encore!' I could 
not but be flattered by this recollection, but soon found it was less on my own 
account that I was thus welcomed, than because a circumstance had occurred to 
the poet which he thought I could perhaps explain. He produce! several French 
newspapers, in which he pointed out to me an article headed 'Jasmin a Londres ;* 
being a translation of certain notices of himself, which had appeared in a leading 
English literary journal. He had, he said, been informed of the honour done him 
by numerous friends, and assured me his fame had been much spread by this 
means; and he was so delighted on the occasion that he had resolved to learu 
English in order that he might judge of the translations from his works, which 
he had been told were well done. I enjoyed his surprise, while I informed hitL 
that I knew who was the reviewer and translator, and explained the reason tol 
the verses giving pleasure in an English dress to be the superior simplicity of the 
English language over modern French, tor which he has a great contempt, as 
unfitted for lyrical composition. He inquired of me respecting Bur as, to whom 



2 Q 






606 NOTES. 

he had heen likened; and begged me to tell him something of Moore. The de- 
light of himself and his wife was amusing at having discovered a secret which 
had puzzled them so long. 

" He nad a thousand things to tell me; in particular, that he had only the day 
before received a letter from the Duchess of Urleans, informing him that she had 
ordered a medal of her late husband to he struck, the first of which would be 
sent to him: she also announced to him the agreeable news of the king having 
granted him a pension of a thousand francs. He smiled and wept by turns, as he 
told all this; and declared, much as he was elated at the possession of a sura 
which made hira a rich man for life, the kindness of the duchess gratified him 
even more. 

" He then made us sit down while he read us two new poems, both charming 
and full of grace and naivete, and one very affecting, being an address to the king, 
alluding to the death of his son. As he read, his wife stood by, and fearing we 
did not quite comprehend his language, she made a remark to that effect: to 
which he answered impatiently, * Nonsense! — don't you see they are in tears?' 
This was unanswerable, and we were allowed to hear the poem to the end ; and I 
certainly never listened to anything more feelingly and energetically delivered. 

"We had much conversation, for he was anxious to detain us, and in the course 
of it he told me that he had been by some accused of vanity. 'Oh,' he rejoined, 
'what would you have I I am a child of nature, and cannot conceal my feelings ; 
the only difference between me and a man of refinement is, that he knows how to 
conceal his vanity and exultation at success, which I let everybody see.'"-— 
Beam and the Pyrenees, i. 365?, et seq. 

Page 198. A Christmas Carol. 

The following description of Christmas in Burgundy is from M. Fertiaulf s 
"Coup d'oeil sur les Noels en Bourgogne," prefixed to the Paris edition of "Les 
Noels Bourguignons de Bernard de la Monnoye (Gui Barozai), 1842." 

"Every year, at the approach of Advent, people refresh their memories, clear 
their throats, and begin preluding in the long evenings by the fireside, those 
carols whose invariable and eternal theme is the coming of the Messiah. They 
take from old closets pamphlets, little collections begrimed with dust and smoke, 
to which thepr^ss, and sometimes the pen, has consigned these songs; and as 
soon as the first Sunday of Advent sounds, they gossip, they gad about, they sit 
together by the fireside, sometimes at one house, sometimes at another, taking 
turns in paying for the chestnuts and white wine, but singing with one common 
voice the grotesque praises of the Little Jesus. There are very few villages even, 
which, during all the evenings of Advent, do not hear some of these curious can- 
ticles shouted in their streets to the nasal drone of bagpipes. In this case the 
minstrel comes as a reinforcement to the singers at the fireside; he brings and 
adds his dose of joy (spontaneous or mercenary, it matters little which) to the joy 
which breathes around the hearth-stone; and when the voices vibrate and re- 
sound, one voice more is always welcome. There it is not the purity of the notes 
which makes the concert, but the quantity,— won- qualitas, sed quantitas; then 
(to finish at once with the minstrel), when the Saviour has at length been born in 
the manger, and the beautiful Christmas eve is passed, the rustic piper makes his 
round among the houses, where every one compliments and thanks him, and, 
moreover, gives him in small coin the price of the shrill notes with which he has 
enlivened the evening entertainments. 

"More or less, until Christmas eve, all goes on in this way among our devout 
singers, with the difference of some gallons of wine or some hundreds of chestnuts. 
But this famous eve once come, the scale is pitched upon a higher key; the closing 
evening must be a memorable one. The toilet is begun at nightfall; then comes 
the hour of supper, admonishing divers appetites; and groups, as numerous as 
possible, are formed to take together this comfortable evening repast. The supper 
finished, a circle gathers around the hearth, which is arranged and set in order 
this evening after a particular' fashion, and which at a later hour of the night is 
to become the object of special interest to the children. On the burning brands 
an enormous log has been placed. This log assaredly does not change its natui e, 
but it changes its name during this evening: it is called the suche (the yule-log). 
•Look you,' say they to the children, 'if you are good this evening, Noel' (tor 
with children one must always personify) ^'ill rain down sugar-plums in the 5 



NOTES. 607 

night.' -And the children sit demurely, keeping as qniet as their turbulent little 
natures will permit. The groups of older persons, not always as orderly as the 
children, seize this good opportunity to surrender themselves with merry hearts 
and boisterous voices to the chanted worship of the miraculous Noel. For this 
final solemnity they have kept the most powerful, the most enthusiastic, the most 
electrifying carols. Noel! Noel! Noel! This magic word resounds on all 
sides; it seasons every sauce, it is served up with every course. Of the thousands 
of canticles which are heard on this famous eve, ninety-nine in a hundred begin 
and end with this word, which is, one may say, their Alpha and Omega, their 
crown and footstool. This last evening, the merry-making is prolonged. Instead 
of retiring at ten or eleven o'clock, as is generally done on all the preceding even- 
ings, they wait for the stroke of midnight: this word sufficiently proclaims to 
what ceremony they are going to repair. For ten minutes or a quarter of an 
hour, the bells have been calling the faithful with a triple bob-major; and each 
one, furnished with a little taper streaked with various colours (the Christmas 
candle), goes through the crowded streets, where the lanterns are dancing like 
will-o'-the-wisps, at the impatient summons of the multitudinous chimes. It is 
the midnight mass. Once inside the church, they hear with more or less piety 
the mass, emblematic of the coming of the Messiah. Then in tumult and great 
haste they return homeward, always in numerous groups; they salute the yule- 
log; they pay homage to the hearth; they sit down at table* and, amid songs 
which reverberate louder than ever, make" this meal of after-Christmas, so long 
looked for, so cherished, so joyous, so noisy, and which it has been thought fit to 
call, we hardly know why, ro>signon. The supper eaten at nightfall is no impe- 
diment, as you may imagine, to the appetite's returning, above all, if the going to 
and from church has made the devout eaters feel some little shafts of the sharp 
and biting north wind. Rossignon then goes on merrily — sometimes far into the 
morning hours; but, nevertheless, gradually throats grow hoarse, stomachs are 
filled, che yule-log burns out, and at last the hour arrives when each one, as best 
he may, regains his domicile and his bed, and puts with himself between the 
sheets the materials for a good sore throat, or a good indigestion, for the moriow. 
Previous to this care has been taken to place in the slippers, or wooden shoes, of 
the children, the sugar plums, which shall be for them, on their waking, the 
welcome fruits of the Christmas log." 

In the "Glossary," the suche, or yule-log, is thus defined : "This is a huge log, 
which is placed on the fire on Christmas eve, and which in Burgundy is called, on 
this account, lai Suche de Noel. Then the father of the family, particularly among 
the middle classes, sings solemnly Christmas carols with his wife and children, 
the smallest of whom he sends into the corner to pray that the yule-log may bear 
him some sugar-plums. Meanwhile, little parcels of them are placed under each 
end of the log, and the children come and pick them up, believing, in good faith, 
that the great log has borne them." 

The Goluex Legend. — The old Legenda Aurea, or Golden Legend, was origin- 
ally written in Latin, in the thirteenth century, by Jacobus de Voragine, a 
Dominican friar, who afterwards became Archbishop of Genoa, and died in 1292. 

He called his book simply, "Legends of the Saints." The epithet of Golden 
was given it by his admirers; for, as Wynkin de Worde says, "Like as passeth 
gold in value all other metals, so this Legend exceedeth all other books." But 
Edward Leigh in much distress of mind, calls it "a book written by a man of a 
len heart for the basenesse of the errours, that are without wit or reason, 
and of a brazen forehead, for his impudent boldnesse in reporting things so fabu- 
lous and incredible." 

This work, the great text-book of the legendary lore of the Middle Ages, was 
translated into French in the fourteenth century by Jean de Vignay, and in the 
fifteenth into English by William Caxton. It has lately been made more acces- 
sible by a new French translation : La LZgende Dorte, traluite du Latin par M. 
G. B. Paris, lS5 f >. There is a copy of the original, with the Gesta Longolar- 
dorvm appended, in the Harvard College Library, Cambridge, printed at Stras- 
bourg, 1496. The title-page is wanting; and the volume begins with the Tabula 
Legendorum. 

" have called this poem the Golden Legend, because the story upon which it is 
founded seem;; to me ro surpass all other legends in beauty and significance. It 



608 NOTES. 

exhibits, amid the corruptions of the Middle Ages, the virtue of disinterestedness 
and self-sacrifice, and the power of Faith, Hope, and Charity, sufficient for all 
the exigencies of life and death. The story is told, and perhaps invented, by 
Hartmann von der Aue, a Minnesinger of the twelfth century. The original may 
be found in Mailath's AU-deutsche Gedichte, with a modern German version. 
There is another in Marbach's Volksbiicher, No. 32. 

Page 200. For these hells have been anointed, 
And baptized with holy water! 

The Consecration and Baptism of Bells is one of the most curious ceremonies 
of the Church in the Middle Ages. The Council of Cologne ordained as 
follows :— 

"Let the hells be blessed, as the trumpets of the Church militant, by which the 
people are assembled to hear the word of God; the clergy to announce his mercy 
by day, and his truth in their nocturnal vigils: that by their sound the faithful 
may be invited to prayers, and that the spirit of devotion in them may be in- 
creased. The fathers have also maintained that demons affrighted by the sound 
of bells calling Christians to prayers, would flee away; and when they fled, the 
persons of the faithful would be secure: that the destruction of lightnings and 
whirlwinds would be averted, and the spirits of the storm defeated." — Edinburgh 
Encyclopcedia, Art. Bells, See also Scheible's Kloster, VI. 776. 

Page 221. It is the" malediction of Eve! 
"Nee esses plus quam femina, qu8B nunc etiam viros transcendis, et quae male- 
dictionem Evse in benedictionem vertisti Marias." — Epistola Abcelardi Heloissoe. 

Tage 237. To come back to my text! 
In giving this sermon of Friar Cuthbert as a specimen of the Risus Pasc7ia y es s 
or street-preaching of the monks at Easter, I have exaggerated nothing. This 
very anecdote, offensive as it is, comes from a discourse of Father Barletta, a 
Dominican friar of the fifteenth century, whose fame as a popular preacher was 
so great, that it gave rise to the proverb, 

Nesdt predicare 
Qui nescit Barlettare. 

" Among the abuses introduced in this century," says Tiraboschi, "was that of 
exciting from the pulpit the laughter of the hearers; as if that were the same 
thing as converting them. We have examples of this not only in Italy, but also 
in France, where the sermons of Menot and Maillard, and of others, who would 
make a better appearance on the stage than in the pulpit, are still celebrated for 
such follies." 

If the reader is curious to see how far the freedom of speech was carried in 
these popular sermons, he is referred to Scheible's Kloster. vol. i., where he will 
find extracts from Abraham a Sancta Clara, Sebastian Frank, and others; and in 
particular, an anonymous discourse called Der Grauel der Verwiistung, The 
Abomination of Desolation preached at Ottukring, a village west of Vienna, 
November 25, 1782, in which the licence of language is carried to its utmost 
limit. 

See also Pr$ r7 icatoriana, ou Relations singular es et amusantes sur les Pridica- 
teui s ; par G. 1\ Philomneste. (Menin.) This work contains extracts from the 
popular sermons of St Vincent Ferrier, Barletta, Menot, Maillard, Marini, Raulin, 
Valladier, De Besse, Camus, Pere Andre, Bening, and the most eloquent of all, 
Jacques Brydaine. 

My authority for the spiritual interpretation of bell-ringing, which follows, is 
Durandus, Ration. Bivin. Cffic, Lib. i. cap. 4. 

Page 240. The Nativity, a Miracle- Play. 
A singular chapter in the History of the Middle Ages is that which gives account 
of the early Christian Drama, the Mysteries, Moralities, and Miracle-Plays, which 
were at first performed in churches; and afterwards in the streets, on fixed or 
moveable stages. For the most part, the Mysteries were founded on the historic 
pDrtions of the Old and New Testaments, and the Miracle-Plays on the Lives of 
Saints— a distinction not always observed, however; for in Mr Wright's "Early 
Mysteries and other Latin Poems of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries," the 



NOTES. 



609 



Kesurrection of Lazarus is called a Miracle, and not a Mystery. The Moralities 
were plays in which the Virtues and Vices were personified. 

The earliest religious play which has been preserved is the Christos Paschon of 
Gregory Nazianzen, written in Greek in the fourth century. Next to this come 
the remarkable Latin plays of Roswitha, the nun of Gandersheim, in the tenth 
century, which, though crude, and wanting in artistic construction, are marked 
by a good deal of dramatic power and interest A handsome edition of these 
plays, with a French translation, has been lately published, entitled, Theatre de 
Jioisvitha, Eeligieuse Allem ancle du X e Steele. Par Charles Magnin. Paris, 1845. 

The most important collections of English Mysteries and Miracle-Plays are 
those known as the Townley, the Chester, and the Coventry plays. The first of 
these collections has been published by the Surtees Society, and the other two by 
the Shakspeare Society. In his introduction to the Coventry Mysteries, the 
editor, Mr Halliwell, quotes the following passage from Dugdale's Antiquities of 
Warwickshire: — 

"Before the suppression of the monasteries, this city was veiy famous for the 
pageants, that were played therein, upon Corpus Christi day; which, occasion- 
ing very great -confluence of people thither, from far and near, was of no small 
benefit thereto; which pageants being acted with mighty state and reverence by 
the friars of this house, 1 ad theaters for the severall scenes, very large and high, 
placed upon wheels, and drawn to all the eminent parts of the city, for the better 
advantage of the spectators; and contain' d the story of the New Testament, 
composed into old English Rithme, as appeareth by an ancient MS. intituled 
Ludus Corporis Christi, or Ludus Conventria}. I have been told by some old people, 
who in their younger years were eye-witnesses of these pageants so acted, that the 
yearly confluence of people to see that show was extraordinary great, and yielded 
no small advantage to this city." 

The representation of religious plays has not yet been wholly discontinued by 
the Roman Church. At Ober-Ammergau, in the Tyrol, a grand spectacle of this 
kind is exhibited once in ten years. A very graphic description of that which 
took place in the year 1850 is given by Miss Anna Mary Howitt, in her "Art- 
Student in Munich," vol. i., chap. iv. She says :— 

" We had come expecting to feel our souls revolt at so material a representation 
of Christ, as any representation of him we naturally imagined must be in a pea-- 
gant's Miracle-Play. Yet so far, strange to confess, neither horror, disgust, nor 
contempt was excited in our minds. Such an earnest solemnity and simplicity 
breathed throughout the whole of the performance, that to me, at least, anything 
like ange., or a perception of the ludicrous, would have seemed more irreverent 
dn my part than was this simple, childlike rendering of the sublime Christian 
tragedy. We felt at times as though the figures of Cimabue's, Giotto's, and 
Perugino's pictures had become animated, and were moving before us; there was 
the same simple arrangement and brilliant colour of drapery; the same earnest, 
ouiet dignity about the heads, whilst the entire absence ci all theatrical effect won- 
derfully increased the illusion. There were scenes and groups so extraordinarily 
like the early Italian pictures, that you could have declared they were the works 
of Giotto and Perugino, and not living men and women, had not the figures 
moved and spoken, and the breeze stirred their richly-coloured drapery, and the 
sun cast long, moving shadows behind them on the stage. These effects of sun- 
shine and shadow, and of drapery fluttered by the wind, were very striking and 
beautiful; one could imagine how the Greeks must have availed themselves of 
such striking effects in their theatres open to the sky." 

Mr Bayard Taylor, in his "Eldorado," gives a description of a Mystery he saw 
performed at San Lionel, in Mexico. See vol. ii., chap. xi. 

" Against the wing. wall of the Hacienda del Mayo, which occupied one end of 
the plaza, was raised a platform, on which stood a table covered with scarlet 
cloth. A rude bower of car.e-leaves, on one end of the platform, represented the 
manger of Bethlehem; while a cord, stretched from its top across the plaza to a 
hole in the front of the church, bore a large tinsel star, suspended by a hole in its 
centre. There was quite a crowd in the plaza, and very soon a procession ap- 
peared, coming up from the lower part of the village. The three kings took the 
lead; the Virgin, mounted on an ass that gloried in a gilded saddle and rose- 
besprinkled mane and tail, followed them, led by the angel; and several women, 
With curious masks of paper, brougnt up the rear. Two characters of theharle- 



610 NOTES. 

quin sort — one with a dog's head on his shoulders, and the other a bald-headed 
friar, with a Huge hat hanging on his back— played all sorts of antics for tha 
diversion of the crowd. After making the circuit of the plaza, the Virgin was 
taken to the platform, and entered the manger. King Herod took his seat at the 
scarlet tabic, with an attendant in blue coat and red sash, whom I took to be his 
Prime Minister. The three kings remained on their horses in front of the church; 
but between them and the platform, under the string on which the star was to 
slide, walked two men in long white robes and bine hoods, with parchment folioa 
in their hands. These were the Wise Men of the East, as one might readily know 
from their solemn air, and the mysterious glances which they cast towards all 
quarters of the heavens. 

"In a little while, a company of women on the platform, concealed behind a 
curtain, sang an angelic chorus to the tune of '0 pescator dell' orida.' At the 
proper moment, the Magi turned towards the platform, followed by the star, to 
which a string was conveniently attached, that it might be slid along the line. 
The three kings followed the star till it reached the manger, when they dis- 
mounted, and inquired for the sovereign whom it had led them to visit. They 
were invited upon the platform and introduced to Herod, as the only king; this 
6.\j not seem to satisfy them, and, after some conversation, they retired. By this 
time the star had receded to the other end of the line, and commenced moving 
forward again, they following. The angel called them into the manger, where, 
upon their knees, they were shewn a small wooden box, supposed to contain the 
sacred infant; they then retired, and the star brought them back no more. 
After this departure, king Herod declared himself greatly confused by what he 
had witnessed, and was very much afraid this newly-found king would weaken 
his power. Upon consultation with his Prime Minister, the Massacre of the 
Innocents was decided upon as the only means of security. 

"The angel, on hearing this, gave warning to the Virgin, who quickly got down 
from the platform, mounted her bespangled donkey, and hurried off. Herod's 
Prime Minister directed all the children to be handed up for execution. A boy, 
in a ragged sarape, was caught and thrust forward; the Minister took him by the 
heels in spite of his kicking, and held his head on the table. The little brother 
and sister of the boy, thinking he was really to be decapitated; yelled at the top 
of their voices in an agony of terror, which threw the crowd into a roar of 
laughter. King Herod brought down his sword with a whack on the table, and 
the Prime Minister, dipping his brush into a pot of white paint which stood before 
him, made a flaring cross on the boy's face. Several other boys were caught and 
served likewise; and, finally, the two harlequins, whose kicks and struggles 
nearly shook down the platform. The procession then went off up the hill, fol- 
lowed by the whole population of the village. All the evening there were fan- 
dangos in the meson, bonfires and rockets on the plaza, ringing of bells, and hi^h 
mass in the church, with the accompaniment of two guitars, tinkling to lively 
polkas." 

In 1£52 there was a representation of this kind by Germans in Boston: and I 
have now before me the copy of a play bill, announeing the performance on June 
10, 1852, in Cincinnati, of the " Great Biblico-Historical Drama, the Life of Jesus 
Christ," with the characters and the names of the performers. 

Page 254. The Scriptorium. 

A most interesting volume might be written on the Calligraphers and Chryso- 
graphers, the transcribers and illuminators of manuscripts in the Middle Ages. 
These men were for the most part monks, who laboured sometimes for pleasure 
and sometimes for penance, in multiplying copies of the classicsand the Scriptures. 

''Of all bodily labours which are proper for us," says Cassiodorus, the old Cala- 
brian monk, "that of copying books has always been more to my taste than any 
other. The more so, as in this exercise the mind is instructed by the reading of 
the Holy Scriptures, and it is a kind of homily to the others, whom these books may 
reach. It is preaching with the hand, by converting the fingers into tongues; it 
is publishing to men in silence the words of salvation; in fine, it is fighting against 
the demon with pen and ink. As many words as a transcriber writes, so many 
wounds the demon receives. In a word, a recluse, seated in his chair to copy 
books, travels into different provinces, without moving from the spot, and the 
labour of his hands is felt even where lie is not." 



yroTEs. 



611 



Nearly every monastery was provided with its Scriptorium. Nicolas de 
Clairvaux, St Bernard's secretary, in one of his letters describes his cell, which 
he calls Seriptoriolum, where he copied books. And Mabillon, in his Etudes 
Monastigues, says that in his time were still to be seen at Citeaux "many of those 
little cells, where the transcribers and bookbinders worked." 

Silvestre's Paleographie Umverselle contains a vast number of facsimiles of the 
most beautiful illuminated manuscripts of all ages and all countries; and Mont- 
faucon in his PalaeograpMa Grceca gives the names of over three hundred calli- 
graphers. He also gives an account of the books they copied, and the colophons, 
with which, as with a satisfactory flourish of the pen, they closed their long-con- 
tinued labours. Many of these are very curious; expressing joy, humility, re- 
morse; entreating the reader's prayers and pardon for the writer's sins; and 
sometimes pronouncing a malediction on any one who should steal the book. A 
few of these I subjoin : — 

" As .pilgrims rejoice, beholding their native land, so are transcribers made 
glad, beholding the end of a book." 

" Sweet is it to write the end of any book." 

"Ye who read, pray for me, who have written this book, the humble and sinful 
Theodulus." 

" As many therefore as shall read this book, pardon me, I beseech you, if aught 
I have erred in accent acute and grave, in apostrophe, in breathing soft or aspi- 
rate; and may God save you all. Amen." 

** If anything is well, praise the transcriber; if ill, pardon his unskil fulness." 

"Ye who read, pray for me, the most sinful of all men, for the Lord's sake." 

" The hand that has written this book shall decay, alas I and become dust, and 
go down to the grave, the corrupter of all bodies. But all ye who are of the por- 
tion of Christ, pray that I may obtain the pardon of my sins. Again and again 
1 beseech you with tears, brothers and fathers, accept my miserable supplication, 
holy choir ! I am called John, woe is me! I am called Hiereus, or Sacerdos, 
in name only, not iu unction." 

"Whoever shall carry away this book, without permission of the Pope, may he 
incur the malediction of the Holy Trinity, of the Holy Mother of God, of Saint 
John the Baptist, of the one hundred and eighteen holy Nicene Fathers, and of 
all the Saints; the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah; and the halter of Judas; ana- 
thema, amen " 

" Keep safe, O Trinity, Father, Sou, and Holy Ghost, my three fingers, with 
which I have written this book." 

"Mathusalas Machir transcribed this divinest book in toil, infirmity, and dan, 
gers many." 

" Bacchius Barbardorius and Michael Sophianus wrote this book in sport and 
laughter, being the guests of their noble and common friend Vincentius Pinellus, 
and Petrus Nunnius, a most learned man." 

This last colophon, Montfaucon does not suffer to pass without reproof. " Other 
calligraphers," he remarks, "demand only the prayers of their readers, and the 
pardon of their sins ; but these glory iu their wantonness.'' 

Page 260. Drink dozen to your peg. 

One of the canons of Archbishop Anselm, promulgated at the beginning of the 
twelfth century, ordains "that priests go not to drinking bouts, nor drink to 
pegs." In the times of the hard-drinking Danes, King Edgar ordained that 
"pins or nails should be fastened into the drinking-cups or horns at stated dis- 
tances, and whosoever shall drink beyond those marks at one draught should be 
obnoxious to a severe punishment." 

Sharpe, in his " History of the Kings of England," says : " Our ancestors were 
formerly famous for corapotation ; their liquor was ale, and one method of amus- 
ing themselves in this way was with the peg-tankard. I had lately one of them in 
my hand. It h )d on the inside a row of eight pins, one above another, from top to 
bottom. It held two quarts, and was a noble piece of plate, so that there was a 
gill of ale, half a pint, Winchester measure, between eacn peg. The law was, 
that every person that drank was to empty the space between pin and pin, so that 
the pins were so many measures to make the company all drink alike, and to 
swallow the same quantity of liquor. This was a pretty sure method of making 
ill the couipacj drunk, especially if it be considered that the rule was, that who- 



612 NOTES. 

soever drank short of his pin, or beyond it, was obliged to drink again, and even 
as deep as to the next pin." 

Page 261. The Convent of St Gildas de Rhuys. 
Abelard, in a letter to his friend Philintus, gives a sad picture of this monastery. 
"I live," he says, "in a barbarous country, the language of which I do not under- 
stand ; I have no conversation, but with the rudest people. My walks are on the 
inaccessible shore of a sea, which is perpetually stormy. My monks are only 
known by their dissoluteness, and living without any rule or order. Could you 
see the abbey, Philintus, you would not call it one. The doors and walls are 
without any ornament, except the heads of wild boars and hinds' feet, which are 
nailed up against them, and the hides of frightful animals. The cells are hung 
with the skins of deer. The monks have not so much as a bell to wake them, 
the cocks and dogs supply that defect. In short, they pass their whole days in 
hunting : would to heaven that were their greatest fault, or that their pleasures 
terminated there! I endeavour in vain to recall them to their duty;" they all 
combine against me, and I only expose myself to continual vexations and dangers. 
I imagine I see every moment a naked sword hang over my head. Sometimes 
they surround me, and load me with infinite abuses ; sometimes they abandon me, 
and I am left alone to my own tormenting thoughts. I make it my endeavour to 
merit by my sufferings, and to appease an angry God. Sometimes I grieve for the 
loss of the house of the Paraclete, and wish to see it again. Ah, Philintus, does 
not the love of Heloise still burn in my heart? I have not yet triumphed over 
that unhappy passion. In the midst of my retirement I sigh, I weep, I pine, I speak 
the dear name Heloise, and am pleased to hear the sound." — Letters of the cele- 
brated Abelard and Heloise. Translated by Mr John Hughes. Glasgow, 1751. 

Page 276. Were it not for my magic garters and staff. 

The method of making the Magic Garters and the Magic Staff is thus laid down 
in "Les Secrets Merveilleux du Petit Albert," a French translation of "Alberti 
Parvi Lucii Libellus de Mirabilibus Naturae Arcanis." 

" Gather some of the herb called motherwort, when the sun is entering the first 
degree of the sign of CapsMcorn ; let it dry a little in the shade, and make some 
garters of the skin of a young hare; that is to say, having cut the skin of the 
hare into strips two inches wide, double them, sew the before-mentioned herb be- 
tween, and wear them on your legs. No horse can long keep up with a man on 
foot, who is furnished with these garters." — P. 128. 

"Gather on the morrow of All-Saints, a strong branch of willow, of which you 
Will make a staff, fashioned to your liking. Hollow it out, by removing the pith 
from within, after having furnished the lower end with an iron ferrule. Put 
into the bottom of the staff the two eyes of a young wolf, the tongue and heart of 
a dog, three green lizards, and the hearts of three swallows. These must all be 
dried in the sun, between two papers, having been first sprinkled with finely pul- 
verised saltpetre. Besides all these, put into the staff seven leaves of vervain, 
gathered on the eve cf St John the Baptist, with a stone of divers colours, which 
you will find in the nest of the lapwing, and stop the end of the staff with a 
pomel of box, or of any other material you please, and be assured, that this staff 
will guarantee you from the perils and mishaps which too often befall travellers, 
either from robbers, wild beasts, mad dogs, or venomous animals. It will also 
procure you the good will of those with whom you lodge." — P. 130. 

Page 280. Saint Elmo's stars. 
So the Italian sailors call the phosphorescent gleams that sometimes play 
about the masts and rigging of ships. 

Page 281. The School of Salerno. 
For a history of the celebrated schools of Salerno and Monte-Cassino, the 
reader is referred to Sir Alexander Croke's introduction to the Regimen Sanitafis 
S+iernitanum; and to Kurt Sprengel's Gnchichte der Arzneikunde^. 463, or Jour- 
dans French translation of it, Histoire de la Medecine, II. 354. 

Page 296. As Lope says. 
"La c61ora 
Co -uti IBs'paHoI senfcado no se tempi*, 



NOTES. 6 J 3 

eino le representan en dos horas 
hasta el final juicio desde el Genesis.' 

Lope de Yega. 

Page 298. Abernuncio Satanas. 
"Digo, Senora, respondio Sanclio, lo que tengo dicho, que de los azotes aber 
nuncio. Abrenuncio, habeis de decir, Sanclio, y no como decis, dijo el Duque." 
— Von Quixote, Part ii., cb. 35 

Page 304. Fray Carrillo. 
Tbe allusion bere is to a Spanish Epigram. 

" Siempre Fraj Carrillo estas 
cansandonos aca fuera ; 
quien en tu celda estuviera 
para no verte jamas I" 

Buhl de Fab-.ir. Florestx, No 611. 

Page 305. Padre Francisco. 
This is from an Italian popular song. 

" * Padre Francesco, 
Padre Francesco I' 
— Cosa volete del Padre Francesco — 
'V 6 una bella ragazzina 
Che si yuole confessar !' 
Fatte 1' entrare, fatte l J entrarel 
Che la Toglio confessare." 

Kopisch. YolksthUmliche Poesien aus alien Mundarien 
italiens und seiner lnseln, p. 194. 

Page 306. Ave! cujus calcem dare. 
From a monkish hymn of the twelfth century, in Sir Alexander Croke's 
" Essay on the Origin, Progress, and Decline of Rhyming Latin Verse," p. 109. 

Page 311. The gold of the Busne. 
Busne is the name given by the Gipsies to all who are not of their race. 

Page. 311. Count of the C ales. 
The Gipsies call themselves Cales. See Borrow's valuable and extremely inte- 
resting work, "The Zincali; or an account of the Gipsies in Soain." London, 
1841. 

Page 314. Asks if his moneybags would rise. 
" i Y volviendome a un lado, vi a un Avariento, que estaba preguntando a otro, 
(que por haber sido embalsamado, y estar lexos sus tripas no hablaba, porque no 
habian llegado si habian de resucitar aquel dia todos los enterradosj si resuci- 
tarian unos bolsones suyos?" — El Sueno de las Calaveras. 

Page 314. And amen! said my Cid Campeador. 
Aline from the ancient "Poema del Cid." 



Page 314. The river of his thoughts. 
This expression is from Dante; 

" Si che chiaro 
Per essa scenda della mente il fiume" 

Byron has likewise used the expression ; though I do not recollect in which of 
his poems. 

Page 315. Mari Franca. 
A common Spanisn proverb, used to turn aside a question one does not wisb 
to answer : 

" Porque cass6 Mari Franca 
quatro l«guas de Salamanca." 

Page 316. Ay, I 'oj % emerald eyes. 
The Spaniards, with good reason, consider this colour of the eye as beautiful, 
and celebrate it in song; as, for example, in the well-Known " Viilancico": — 

" Ay ojuelos verdes, 
ay los mis ojuelos, 



(514 NOTES. 

ay hagan los cielos 
que de mi te acuerdesl 

Tei goconfianza 
de mis venles ojos." 

JSOhl de Fdber Ftoresta. No. 255. 
Pante speaks of Beatrice's eyes as emeralds. —Purgatorio, xxxi. 116. Lami 
says, in his A nnotazioni, "Eranoi suoi occhi d'un turchino verdiccio, simile a 
quel del mare." 

Page 317. The Avenging Child. 
See the ancient ballads of El Infante Vengador, and Calaynos. 

Page'317. All are sleeping. 
From the Spanish.— Bold's Floresta, No 282. 

Page 326. Good night,. 
From the Spanish ; as are likewise the songs immediately following, and that 
Which commences the first scene of Act III. 

Page 337. The evil eye. 

"In the Gitano language, casting the evil eye is called querelar nasula, which 
simply means making sick, and which, according to the common superstition, is 
accomplished by casting an evil look at people, especially children, who, from the 
tenderness of their constitution', are supposed to be more easily blighted than 
those of a more mature age. After receiving the evil glance, they fall sick and 
die in a few hours. 

ik The Spaniards have very little to say respecting the evil eye, though the 
belief in it is very prevalent, especially in Andalusia, amongst the lower orders. 
A stag's horn is considered a good safeguard, and on that account a small horn, 
tipped with silver, is frequently attached to the children's necks by means of a 
cord braided from the hair of a black mare's tail. Should the evil glance be cast, 
it is imagined that the horn receives it, and instantly snaps asunder. Such horns 
may be purchased in some of the silversmiths' shops at Seville." — Borrouf s Zincali, 
vol. i. ch. 9. 

Page 337. On the top of a mountain I stmd. 
This and the following scraps of song are from Borrow's Zincali; or t an Account 

o f the Gipsies in Spain. 
The gipsy words in- the same scene may be thus i?iterpreted : — 
John- Dorados, pieces of gold. Hermit, highwaj -robber. 

Pigeon, a simpleton. Planets, candles. 

In your morocco, stripped. Commandments, the fingers. 

Itoves, sheets. Saint Martin asleep, to rob a person asleep. 

Moon, a shirt. Lanterns, eyes. 

CMrelin, a thief. Goblin, police-officer. 

Murc'igalleros, those who steal at night-fall. Papagayo, a spy. 
Jiustuieros, foot-pads. Vineyards and dancing John, to take flight. 

Page 344. If thou art sleeping maiden. 
From the Spanish; as is likewise the song of the Contrabandista on page 395. 

The Song of Hiawatha. — This Indian Edda— if I may so call it — is founded 
on a tradition prevalent among the North American Indians, of a personage of 
miraculous birth who was sent among them to clear their rivers, forests, and 
nVhing-grounds, and to teach them the arts of peace. He was known among 
different tribes by the several names of Michabou, Chiabo, Manabozo, Taren- 
yawagon, and Hiawatha. Mr Schoolcraft gives an account of him in \\v& AJgie 
Researches, Vol. I. p. 134; and in his History, Condition, and Prospects, of th' 
Indian Tribes of the United States, Part III., p. 314, may be found the Iroquois form 
of the tradition, derived from the verbal narrations of an Onondaga p'lief. 

Into this old tradition I have woven other curious Indian legend/- *rawn chiefly 
from the various and valuable writings of Mr Schoolcraft, to whom the literary 
world is greatly indebted for his indefatigable zeal in rescuing from oblivion so 
much ot the legendary lore of the Indians. 

The scene of the poem is among the Ojibways on the southern shore of Lake 
Superior, in. the region between the Pictured Rocks and the Grand Sable. 



NOTES. 615 

Page 348. In the Vale of laicaseniha. 
This valley, now culled Norman's Kill, is in Albany County, New York. 

Page 349. On the Mountains of the Prairi-e, 
Mr Catlin, in his Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and Coiidition of 
the North American Indians, Vol II., p. 16t), gives an interesting account of the 
Coteau des Prairies, and the Red Pipe-stone Quarry. He says : — 

"Here (according to their traditions) happened the mysterious birth of the red 
pipe, which has blown its fumes of peace and war to the remotest corners of the 
continent; which has visited every warrior, and passed through its reddened 
stem the irrevocable oath of war and desolation. And here, also, the peace- 
breathing calamet was born, and fringed with the eagle's quills, which has shed 
its thrilling fumes over the land, and soothed the fury of the relentless savage. 

"The Great Spirit at an ancient period here called the Indian nations together. 
and, standing on the precipice of the red pipe-stone rock, broke from its wall a 
piece, and made a lmge pipe by turning it in his hand, which he smoked over 
them, and to the North, the South, the East, and the West, and told them that 
this stone was red — that it was their flesh— that they must use it for their pipes 
of peace — that it belonged to them all, and that the war-club and scalping- 
knife must not be raised on its ground. At the last whiff of his pipe his head 
went into a great cloud, and the whole surface of the rock for several miles was 
melted and glazed; two great ovens were opened beneath, and two women (guar- 
dian spirits of the place) entered them in a blaze of fire; and they are heard 
there yet (Tso-mec-cos-tee and Tso-me-cos-te-won-dee), answering to the invoca- 
tions of the high-pi iests or medicine-men, who consult them when they are 
visitors to this sacred place." 

Page 354. Hark you, Bear! you are a coward. 
This anecdote is from Heckewelder. In his account of the Indian Nations, he 
describes an Indian hunter as addressing a bear in nearly these words. "I was 
present," he says, " at the delivery of this curious invective; when the hunter had 
despatched the bear, I asked him how he thought that poor animal could under- 
stand what he said to it ? 'Oh,' said he in answer, ' the bear understood me very 
well ; did you not observe how ashamed he looked while I was upbraiding him V " 
— Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, \ "ol. I. p. 240. 

Page 36 1 . Hush ! the Naked Bear will get thee ! 

Heckewelder, in a letter published in the Transactions of the American Philoso- 
phical Society, Vol. IV. p. 260, speaks of this tradition as prevalent among the 
Mohicans and Delawares. 

"Their reports," he says, "run thus: that among all animals that had been 
formerly in this country, this was the most ferocious; that it was much larger 
than the largest of the common bears, and remarkably long-bodied; all over 
(except a spot of hair on its back of a white colour), naked 

"The history of this animal used to be a subject of conversation among the 
Indians, especially when in the woods a-hunting. I have also heard them say to 
their children when crying : 'Hush! the naked bear will hear you, be upon you, 
and devour you.' " 

Page 369. WJiere the Falls of Minnehaha, dec. 

"The scenery about Fort Snelling is rich in beauty. The falls of St Anthony 
are familiar to travellers, and to readers of Indian sketches Between the fort 
and these falls are the ' Little Falls,' forty feet in height, on a stream that empties 
into the Mississippi. The Indians call them Mine-hah-hah, or 'laughing waters.'" 
— Mrs Eastman's Dacotah, or Legends of the Sioux, Introd. p. ii. 

Page 402. Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo. 

A description of the Grand Sable, or great sand-dunes of Lake Superior, is 
given in Foster and Whitney's Report on the Geology of the Lake Superior Land 
District, Part II., p. 131. 

"The Grand Sable possesses a scenic interest little inferior to that of the Pic- 
tured Rocks. The explorer passes abruptly from a coast of consolidated sand to 
one of loose materials ; and although in the one case the cliffs are less precipitous, 
yet in the other they attain a higher altitude. He sees before him a long reach 



(jib* NOTES 

of coast, resembling a vast sand-bank, more than three hundred and fifty feet in 
height, without a trace of vegetation. Ascending to the top, rounded hillocks of 
blown sand are observed, with occasional clumps of trees, standing out like oases 
in the desert/' 

Page 403. Onaway! Aioake, beloved/ 
The original of this song may be found in Littell's Living Age % Vol. XXV., p. 
45. 

Page 405. Or the Red Swan, floating, flying. 

The fanciful tradition of the Red Swan may be found in Schoolcraft's Algic 
Researches, Vol. II , p. 9. Three brothers were hunting on a wager to see who 
would bring home the first game. 

"They were to shoot no other animal," so the legend says, "but such as each 
was in the habit of killing. They set out different ways; Odjibwa, the youngest, 
had not gone far before he saw a bear, an animal he was not to kill, by the agree- 
ment. He followed him close, and drove an arrow through him, which brought 
him to the ground. Although contrary to the bet, he immediately commenced 
skinning him, when suddenly something red tinged all the air around him. He 
rubbed his eyes, thinking he was perhaps deceived ; but without effect, for the red 
hue continued. At length he heard a strange noise at a distance. It first ap- 
peared like a human voice, but after following the sound for some distance, he 
reached the shores of a lake, and soon saw the object he was looking for. At a 
distance out in the lake sat a most beautiful Red Swan, whose plumage glittered 
in the sun, and who would now and then make the same noise he had heard. 
He was within long bow-sh't, and, pulling the arrow from the bow-string up to 
his ear, took deliberate aim and shot. The arrow took no effect; and he shot 
and shot again till his quiver was empty. Still the swan remained, moving round 
and round, stretching its long neck and dipping its bill into the water, as if heed- 
less of the arrows shot at it. Odjibwa ran home, and got all his own and his 
brother's arrows, and shot them all away. He then stood and gazed at the beau- 
tiful bird. While standing, he remembered his brother's saying that in their de- 
ceased father's medicine-sack were three magic arrows. Off he started, his anxiety 
to kill the swan overcoming all scruples. At any other time, he would have 
deemed it sacrilege to open his father's medicine-sack ; but now he hastily seized 
the three arrows and ran back, leaving the other contents of the sack scattered 
over the lodge. The swan was still there. He shot the first arrow with great 
precision, and came very near to it The second came still closer; as he took the 
lastarrow,he felt his arm firmer, and, drawing it up with vigour, saw it pass through 
the neck of the swan a little above the breast. Still it did not prevent the bird 
from flying off, which it did, however, at first slowly, flapping its wings and rising 
gradually into the air, and then flying off toward the sinking of the sun." — Pp. 
10-12. 

Page 4 1 2. When I think of my beloved. 

The original of this song may be found in Oneota, p. 15. 

Page 413. Sing the rny&teries of Mondamin. 

The Indians hold the maize, or Indian corn, in great veneration. "They 
esteem it so important and divine a grain," says Schoolcraft, "that the'r story- 
tellers invented various tales, in which this idea is symbolised under the form of 
a special gift from the Great Spirit. The Odjibwa-Algonquins, who call it Mon- 
da-min, that is, the Spirit's grain or berry, have a pretty story of this kind, in 
which the stalk in full tassel is represented as descending from the sky, under the 
guise of a handsome youth, in answer to the prayers of a young man at his fast of 
virility, or coming to manhood. 

"It is well known that corn-planting, and corn-gathering, at least among all 
the still uncolonised tribes, are left entirely to the females and children, and a 
few superannuated old men. It is not generally known, perhaps, that this labour 
is not compulsory, and that it is assumed by the females as a just equivalent, in 
their view, for the onerous and continuous labour of the other sex, in providing 
meats, and skins for clothing, by the chase, and in defending their villages against 
their enemies, and keeping intruders off their territories. A good Indian house- 
wife desmstiiis a part of her prerogative, and prides herself to have a store of 



NOTES. 617 

3om to exercise her hospitality, or duly honour her husband's hospitality, in the 
entertainment of the lodge guests." — Oneota, p. 82. 

Page 414. Thus the fields shall be more fruitful. 
" A singular proof of this belief, in both sexes, of the mysterious influence of 
the steps of a woman on the vegetable and insect creation, is found in an ancient 
custom, which was related to me, respecting corn-planting. It was the practice 
of the hunter's wife, when the field of corn had been planted, to choose the first 
dark or over-clouded evening to perform a secret circuit, sans habilement, around 
the field. For this purpose she slipped out of the lodge in the evening, unob- 
served, to some obscure nook, where she completely disrobed. Then, taking her 
matchecota, or principal garment, in one hand, she dragged it around the field. 
This was thought to insure a prolific crop, and to prevent the assaults of insects 
and worms upon the grain. It was supposed they could not creep over the 
charmed line." — Oneota, p. 83. 

Pag6 416. With Jvs prisoner-string he bound him. 
"These cords," says Mr Tanner, "are made of the bark of the elm-tree, by boil- 
ing and then immersing it in cold water The leader of a war party 

commonly c;»rries several fastened about his waist, and if, in the course of the 
fight, any one of his young men takes a prisoner, it is his duty to bring him im- 
mediately to the chief, to be tied, and the latter is responsible for his safe-keep- 
ing." — Narrative of Captivity and Adventures, p. 412. 

Page 417. Wagemin, the thief of corn-fields. 
Paimosaid, the skulking robber. 

"If one of the young female huskers finds a red ear of corn, it is typical of a 
brave admirer, and is regarded as a fitting present to some young warrior. But 
if the ear be crooked, and tapering to a point, no matter what colour, the whole 
circle is set in a roar, and wa-ge-min is the word shouted aloud. It is the symbol 
of a thief in the corn-field. It is considered as the image of an old man stooping 
as he enters the lot. Had the chisel of Praxiteles been employed to produce this 
image, it could not more vividly bring to the minds of the merry group the idea 
of a pilferer of their favourite mondamin 

"The literal meaning of the term is, a mass, or crooked ear of grain; but the 
ear of corn so called is a conventional type of a little old man pilfering ears of 
corn in a corn-field. It is in this manner that a single word or term, in these 
curious languages, becomes the fruitful parent of many ideas. And we can thus 
perceive why it is that the word wagemin is alone competent to excite merriment 
in the husking circle. 

"This term is taken as the basis of the cereal chorus, or corn-song, as sung by 
the Northern Algonquin tribes. It is coupled with the phrase Paimosaid, — a 
permutative form of the Indian substantive, made from the verb pimosa. to walk. 
Its literal meaning is, he icho walks, or the walker; but the ideas conveyed by it 
are, he who walks by night to pilfer corn. It ctfers, therefore, a kind of parallel- 
ism in expression to the preceding term." — One6ta, p 254- 
Page 427. Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces. 

This Game of the Bowl is the principal game of hazard among the Northern 
tribes of Indians Mr Schoolciaft gives a particular account of it in Oneota, -p. 
85. " This ganie," he says, ' ; is very fascinating to some portions of the Indians. 
They stake at it their ornaments, weapons, clothing, canoes, horses, everything 
in fact they possess; and have been known, it is said, to set up their wives and 
children, and even to forfeit their own liberty. Of such desperate stakes I have 
seen no examples, nor do I think the game itself in common use. It is rather 
confined to certain persons, who hold the relative rank of gamblers in Indian 
society — men who are not noted as hunters or warriors, or steady providers for 
their families. Among these are persons who bear the term of* lenadizze-icug, 
that is, wanderers about the country, braggadocios, or fops. It can hardly be 
classed with the popular games of amusement, by which skill and dexterity are 
acquired. I have generally found the chiefs and graver men of the tribes, who 
encouraged the young men to play ball, and are sure to be present at the custo- 
mary sports, to witness, and sanction, and applaud them, speak lightly and dispa- 
ragingly of this game of hazard. Yet it cannot be denied, that some of the chiefs, 



618 NOTES. 

distinguished in war and the chase, at the West, can be referred to as lending 
their example to its fascinating power^." 
See also his History, Condition, and Prospects of the Indian Tribes, Part II., p. 72. 

Page 437. To the Pictured Rocks of sandstone. 

The reader will find a long description of the Pictured Hocks in Foster and 
Whitney's Report on the Geology of the Lake Superior Land District, Part II., p. 
124. From this I make the following extract : — 

" The Pictured Rocks may be described, in general terms, as a series of sand- 
stone bluffs extenuing along the shore of Lake Superior for about five miles, and 
rising in most places, vertically from the water, without any beach at the base, 
to a height varying from fifty to nearly two hundred feet. Were they simply a 
line of cliffs, they might not, so far as relates to height or extent, be worthy of a 
rank among great natural curiosities, although such an assemblage of rocky 
strata, washed by the waves of the great lake, would not, under any circumstances, 
be destitute of grandeur. To the voyager, coasting along their base in his frail 
canoe, they would, at all times, be an object of dread; the recoil of the surf, the 
rock-bound coast, affording, for miles, no place of refuge — the lowering sky, the 
rising wind— all these would excite his apprehension, and induce him to ply a 
vigorous oar until the dreaded wall was passed. But in the Pictured Rocks there 
are two features which communicate to the scenery a wonderful and almost unique 
character. These are, first, the curious manner in which the cliffs have been ex- 
cavated, and worn away by the action of the lake, which for centuries has dashed 
an ocean-like surf against their base; and, second, the equally curious manner in 
which large portions of the surface have been coloured by bands of brilliant hues. 

"It is from the latter circumstance that the name, by which these cliffs an* 
known to the American traveller, is derived; while that applied to them by the 
French voyageurs ('Les Portails') is derived from the former, and by far the 
most striking peculiarity. 

"The term Pictured Rocks has been in use for a great length of time; but when 
it was first applied, we have been unable to discover. It would seem that the first 
travellers were more impressed with the novel and striking distribution of colours 
on the surface, than with the astonishing variety of form into which the cliffs 
themselves have been worn 

"Our voyageurs had many legends to relate of the pranks of the Menni-bojou 
in these caverns, and, in answer to our inquiries, seemed disposed to fabricate 
stories, without end, of the achievements of this Indian deity." 

Page 455. Toward the sun his hands were lifted. 
In this manner, and with such salutations, was Father Marquette received by 
the Illiuois. See his Voyages et Decouvertes, Section V. 

Page 491. That of our vices we can frame 
A ladder. 
The words of St Augustine are, " De vitiis nostris scalam nobis facimus, si vltla 
Ipsa calcamus " — Sermon III. De Ascensions 

Page 493. The Phantom Ship. 

A detailed account of this "apparition of a Ship in the Air " is given by Cotton 
Mather in his Magnolia Christi, Book i. Ch. vi. It is contained in a letter from 
the Rev. James Pierpont, Pastor of New Haven. To this account Mather adds 
these words : — ■ 

"Reader, there being yet living so many credible gentlemen, that were eye- 
witnesses of this wonderful thing, I venture to publish it for a thing as undoubted 
as 'tis wonderful." 

Page 497. And the Emperor but a Macho. 
Macho., in Spanish, signifies a mule. Golondrina is the feminine form of 
Oolondrino, a swallow, and also a cant name for a deserter. 

jfage 501. Oliver Basselin. 
Oliver Basselin, the *Zre ioyeux du Vaudeville" flourished in the fifteenth 



NOTES. 619 

century, and gave to his convivial songs the name of his native valleys, in whicfl 
he sang them, Vaux-de-Vire. This name was afterwards corrupted into the 
modern Vaudeville. 

Page 503. Victor Galbraith. 

This poem is founded on fact. Victor Galbraith was a bugler in a company of 
volunteer cavalry; and was shot in Mexico for some breach of discipline. It is a 
common superstition among soldiers, that no balls will kill them unless their 
names are written on them. The old proverb says, "Every bullet has its billet." 

Page 505. / remember the sea-fight far away. 

This was the engagement between the Enterprise and Boxer, off the harbour of 
Portland, in which both captains were slain. They were buried side by side, in 
the cemetery on Mountjoy. 

Page 511. Santa Filomena. 

"At Pisa the Church of San Francisco contains a chapel dedicated lately to 
Santa Filomena; over the altar is a picture, by Sabatelli, representing the Saint 
as a beautiful, nymph-like figure, floating down from heaven, attended by two 
angels bearing the lily, palm, and javelin, and beneath, in the foreground, the sick 
and maimed, who are healed by her intercession." — Mrs Jameson, Sacrtd 
and Legendary Art. ii. 298. 



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